


A Proposition, Two Birthdays and Ninety-Four Runs

by maythefoursbewithyou



Series: The Matt and Corey Chronicles [9]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Bangladesh tour 2016/2017, Chappell-Hadlee December 2016, Communication, Fluff, Jimmy's back and he's trying to do some more homewrecking, Letters, M/M, Matt and Corey are 'on a break' hahahahahaha, Matt gets angry, Matt gets horny, McDonald's Super Smash 2016/2017, The Porn Is the Plot, angry violent sexual frisson, boys awkwardly discussing their moral relationship with sadomasochism, fluff come on of course there's fluff, form and injury, homophobic parents, mention of rape fantasy, mild spanking, peanut butter jokes just cos, phone sex from different rooms in the same hotel, poorly negotiated kink, references to masturbation, the nauseatingly twee variety that i tend to grow in my garden of delights, these idiots didn't do their research, they keep saying they'll 'talk' but they just mean fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maythefoursbewithyou/pseuds/maythefoursbewithyou
Summary: What the title says. Summer of 2016-2017 in Australia and New Zealand.Chapter One: MatureChapter Two: MatureChapter Three: Explicit with some mild kinkChapter Four: Mature I guessChapter Five: Mature





	1. Chapter 1

He can’t account for this.

Maybe he can, if he thinks about it – a good old-fashioned dissection of the evening. Ah, but does he want to? And does he have a choice? He’s old and stupid enough to know that the mind has free reign when you’re lying alone in bed. So he might as well roll with it. 

Because Matt’s not a violent guy. He knows this about himself as surely as he knows that lemons are sour and strawberries are sweet. But something flipped in him tonight. There’s something _there_ , alien and uncomfortable coursing in his bloodstream, and he doesn’t want it to be him. Doesn’t want to own this, this aggression, whatever it is. 

He wipes the come from his belly with his undies, then discards the soiled jocks, aiming them at his laundry pile.

Aggression he can accept, to some extent. It’s remote to him, something that he can tap into on the pitch, running in, picturing the batsman as his adversary. He musters up hostility and channels it into a strategy, something to trap or outsmart his opponent, conquer him, and while he might not be totally feral in his expression like, say, Mitch McClenaghan, he can still seethe a little, let the energy fuel his action.

Once the over has been bowled though, it’s a game, his livelihood and one that brings him joy, even in times when the batsmen dominate him.

But this. This isn’t a game. It’s serious and it’s sinister.

It took him unawares in the hotel bar, where a few of the guys had gathered, not to celebrate a win (they’d lost) but congratulate the new guy on his first international game. Not that Lockie was all that into the celebratory aspect of it – there for the drinking by the looks of things.

‘I stunk,’ Lockie admitted, and to the cheers of his team-mates, emptied a tumbler of whiskey that his captain had purchased down his throat. Kane was insistent about buying the first round.

‘I’m not hearing that from anyone who puts Davey-boy in his place.’ Fair comment from Kane – Warner can be a beast if he settles in at the crease. ‘You were nervous, but who wouldn’t be? It’s the Aussies, and your first crack at them.’

Matty felt for the guy. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d made his own international debut. He’d nailed it that day against India, but it could so easily have gone another way. He slapped Lockie on the back. ‘Welcome to the club, mate. The Bowlers Punished By Smudge’s Ugly Batting Club.’

‘Ooh, I’m in this club too.’ Jimmy, seeing an opening, squeezed himself between Lockie and Kane and propped his elbow on the former’s shoulder, to lean on. He trained his cool, calculating eyes across at Matt and parted his lips in a smirk that suggested a devious agenda.

‘Only Jimmy would get excited about Smudge’s batting. Just make sure you wipe the semen off your tv afterward, Twitterboy,’ their captain quipped, and then excused himself, leaving Matt awkwardly stranded with Lockie and Jimmy.

Matt longed for a quick escape too – he was only arms length from Jimmy and the urge to throw a punch at that smug mouth simmered and bubbled.

‘Hell Jimmy. At your economy rate, you can be president of the club,’ Lockie playfully jabbed him in the bicep. ‘So how about you get us the next round, prezzy?’

‘Small price to pay to move in such esteemed circles.’ Then he winked at Matt. Matt wouldn’t have known he was clenching a fist but for the stab of his fingernails into the flesh of his palm. There he was, this asshole, after the fast one he’d pulled on Matt just a couple of weeks ago, still trying his luck. Matt just glared back, his most unimpressed stare, and then cast his eyes around, looking even harder for an out. 

Fortunately, he noticed Tom and Toey, his Canterbury besties, carrying their drinks over to a table in a corner, and there was room enough for a third to join them. ‘No thanks,’ he told Jimmy, ‘Think I’ll have a quiet one,’ and he brushed past Trent, Sants and Dutchy on his way out of the claustrophic milieu.

‘Corey should be here,’ he told his buddies as he squished in. ‘Not just cos Jimmy’s a steaming turd, and I don’t want to see any more knives in Cozza’s back. He should be here because he deserves to be in the team. Heaven knows we’ve been struggling in the all-rounder department. I mean, look what happened today.’ 

‘Except for the problem of his back,’ Tom replaced his pint glass on the coaster. ‘If you can’t be called on to bowl, then technically you’re not an all-rounder.’

Damn Tommy and his ability to reason.

‘Well if he hadn’t been stood down, then he wouldn’t have got himself injured.’

Tommy wasn’t about to let that slide. ‘Pretty sure his back’s been an issue for a couple of years.’

‘You had to go and say the sensible thing, didn’t you?’ Matt replied, feeling a little sheepish. ‘Look, it’s like this. Jimmy Neesham is not half the player or the man that Corey is. I was reminded of that every time I watched him run in to bowl on that bouncy pitch and seeing so many sail over everyone’s heads for five wides.’

They fell quiet in the booth as new guy Lockie swaggered past. Matt’s more mindful of discretion than ever these days, but Lockie’s connection to Jimmy gave him even more reason for caution. The Auckland Boys’ Grammar Party Line. Or possibly hivemind. Matt isn’t sure which, but the appraising glances from Lockie only served to heighten the conspiracy theory. Matt wondered how many of the guys knew the full story: that Jimmy seduced Matt’s confidences, and spilled all his concerns about Cozza to management, and ultimately got Corey a hiatus from the team. Now he’s on a diet of provincial cricket and getting his head read til no-one’s sure when. 

When safe from the potential for eavesdropping ears, the conversation resumed, Toey enquiring after Cozza. ‘You never did tell us what happened in the Mount. Why do we always have to drag the details out of you?’ 

Because it’s complicated, said Matt’s complicated intestines as they complicated themselves into a knot. ‘Because it’s private,’ said his mouth.

‘As private as that DVD you bought at Good Vibrations? I mean, really, Mary, we already figured you were a bottom.’

There are some moments that float beyond the mere blush of embarrassment out into a seasick ocean. ‘I’m not an anything.’ He’d tried to shut down the conversation but instead he came off defensive, and it just opened him up to more needling. 

‘Breakfast on Wednesday with Panda Eyes Hennerz, all dressed up in a Mumbai Indians shirt with 78 on the back.’ 

Matt groaned.

‘And when we asked you how he was, you were positively shirty. Am I right Tommy? Would you say shirty? Or tetchy?’

Tommy eyed both of them in succession, probably weighing up his loyalties before answering. Like Matt was going to rate against Toey. ‘You were a little-‘ he clears his throat, ‘Sensitive.’

‘Shirty!’ Toey shot back, his consultation with Tommy merely perfunctory. ‘Have the two of you talked since then? And what about the break? Because I’m confused. There’s solid evidence you stayed the night, and yet, look at your face.’

‘My face is fine,’ Matt said through gritted teeth. He never has learned how to properly fend off the good-cop, bad-cop, two-pronged munchkin attack. They know exactly how to trip him so he spills the tea.

‘He’s still got the ring, I see,’ Tommy said, like he wasn’t even there.

He’d been snarling before, but with Tommy joining in, it was the last straw. ‘Seriously, fuck off,’ he barked.

‘That’s it, let it out. Are you ready to talk now?’ 

Toey’s sympathetic tone surprised him out of his defences. He sighed. ‘Alright. Yes, we’re still having a break. Yes, I stayed the night. I haven’t talked to him since I left. I’ve been… putting it off.’

His interrogators said nothing. Toey sipped his cocktail, Tommy drank from his pint glass. Then they looked at him, just stared, until the pause in the discussion was too awkward for Matt to persevere with. And hot liquid ran over the edge of the metaphorical teacup.

‘I left in a hurry. I sort of wigged out and ah… I… didn’t want to call him. I don’t want to have to tell him why. Why I ran out. It’s too embarrassing. And, um, he’ll probably get all silent and broody and shit.’

‘Call him!’ they advised, in perfect unison. ‘Now,’ Tom added, earnestly. ‘You get in that elevator and you go to your room and you call him and tell him exactly what happened. You know it’s the right thing to do. So do it.’

‘Unless you, you know, want to have your parent’s relationship,’ Toey chimed in, typically tactless, typically penetrating.

Matt cracked a small smile. The anger that Jimmy’s attempt at flirting charged up in him had finally dispersed. ‘Toey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want us to be happy together.’

Toey shrugged. ‘He’s still an oaf. But you could do worse.’ He nodded his forehead in the direction of the bar, where Jimmy had an arm around Sants while he talked too loud and laughed at all his own jokes.

‘That’s practically an endorsement, coming from you.’

 

*

 

He rolls over, hoping the untouched half of the pillow will cool his hot cheeks, and it does, momentarily, but he’s still more awake (and hot!) than he’d like to be. He flicks on the lamp and sits up, peeling another layer of bedding back and casting it off at the foot of the bed. Now it’s just a sheet, the sticky Sydney heat, and his inner brute blocking his access to sleep. 

One obstacle at a time. He can’t do jack about the temperature, doesn’t seem to have controls for the air con, so he’ll ruminate on his will to violence a bit more. That he can – or at least, should - be able to control. 

He’d left the hotel barroom. Toey and Tom were right, of course. He needed to do what he and Corey always agreed they would do in their relationship, but seldom saw good on that agreement: talk. He had a slow elevator ride up several levels with which to prepare – murmured half-sentences to himself in the ascending box, stopped, reworded, tried again. A painful alchemy, turning words into soft, non-threatening cushions so he could toss them at Corey and be sure they would bounce right off him again. The futility of the exercise. Corey had a right to be upset after the abrupt way he departed, offering no explanation for the sudden seachange. 

He can apologise ok, but it’s the why of it that he didn’t want to elaborate on. Admit to things he can barely admit to himself. 

The shiny metal doors revealed his floor with the ping of a bell. He stepped out into the grey-carpeted corridor, and turned left to pass the second lift and find his room number amidst the white walls. The adjacent lift chimed and he registered the whir as their doors opened too. 

‘Matt!’ someone called out behind him.

Matt pivoted around. Jimmy, red-bearded, in a blue t-shirt that clung to his torso. He must have followed him.

I can’t be bothered with this, Matt thought. ‘What do you want, Jimmy?’

‘So suspicious, Matt,’ Jimmy caught up to him then. ‘I thought you would have figured it out by now. I’m a simple man of modest needs.’

‘My arse,’ he muttered.

Jimmy laughed. ‘So you have figured it out.’

Matt stopped walking. Sounded his words out, one at a time, as though each were followed by a full stop. ‘Fuck off, Jimmy.’ He doesn’t swear often, but tonight he had a truck-load of four letter words in his repertoire.

‘You know, you and I could have a lot of fun. We’re both single, so what have you got to lose?’

At the word ‘lose,’ Matt lunged at Jimmy. The wall thudded under the weight of Jimmy’s shoulder blades as Matt pinned him against it. Matt had him by the neck, palm bunched into a fist next to Jimmy’s smug face, tingling with rage and breathing shallow. He nearly lost his relationship because of Jimmy – might still – and there was Jimmy, unflinching, angling for a cheap root and grinning back at him.

Bastard. He was enjoying it. 

‘You like it rough, huh?’ 

Matt heard the jangle of metal – looked down – Jimmy’s hands were at his waist, fumbling with his belt. With one last shove, Matt jumped away from Jimmy, as though burned.

Twisted prick just laughed at him, slow and triumphant.

Matt reached into his shirt, brandished his chain with the ring on it at Jimmy. ‘I’m not single,’ he said, but his words felt hollow as he sounded them out. Sure, he’s not single exactly, but he’s not _not_ single, either – he’s everywhere and nowhere, precariously balanced on the edge of both. 

What he is is unhappy and lonely.

‘And you sure sound thrilled about it,’ Jimmy said, cool and sardonic, running a hand through his sand-coloured hair. 

‘You sicken me.’ Matt walked away, fixing up his belt. He went right to the end of the hallway before he realised he’d passed his room. 

It took a few moments for his semi to subside, a lot of effort to train his thoughts away from the arousal he felt when he barged against that scheming asshole. 

More than anything, Matt sickens himself.

 

*

 

In the end, he didn’t think that was a good time to get in touch with Corey, fresh guilt hatching over the encounter with Jimmy in the hallway, feeling as though he had cheated on his boyfriend and on himself. So he tidied up for the evening, packed his cricket belongings away so they’d be ready for the flight to Canberra in the morning. Then he watched _Spank Me Harder…_ on his laptop – well, about ten minutes of it was all it took, in all fairness. People he didn’t know doing unspeakable things to each other meant a level of remove that felt safer to him. Only, it all led back to Tuesday night, didn’t it, to this grubby homunculus inside him that with every thrust into Corey’s upturned arse, urged him to… it’s better not to say.

And that’s just it. How does he tell Corey this when he can’t bring himself to speak or even think the words?

He tries to pray, and quits that endeavour early. He's prayed, hard, every night since the Mount. Should probably just keep on beseeching God's wisdom for hours til he falls asleep, but it only leaves him more conflicted. He wants to untie the knots, not tighten them.

(‘Call him!’ snapped Tom and Toey like telepathic TV twins.)

It’s late now, in Sydney, and still he can’t sleep. Corey is probably asleep, over in New Zealand Standard Time. They used to be good at this, at calling each other while on the road.

An hour or so ago, he’d stashed his phone into his jeans pocket on the other side of the room. Sleep hygiene, he’d read somewhere, and he never bothers employing it except on nights like this, when he’s feeling too overwhelmed for it to work anyway. 

So he gets out of bed and flicks the ceiling fan on, splashes some cold water on his face in the ensuite, and sinks his body onto the sofa, phone in hand. He’s sweaty in his skin, but the fan brings relief – a shame its motions are too loud for him to sleep to.

He brings up Corey’s number and hits the green telephone symbol.

‘Matty?’ Corey comes through slurry, low and smooth. ‘What time is it in Sydney?’

‘Late. Early. At a certain point, they’re the same thing, aren’t they?’

‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ he says, and then clears his throat. ‘Hold on a sec, I’m just going to rearrange myself.’

Matt blinks, licks his lips, and waits with his heart in his mouth, staring across the room at thick black curtains drawn across the windows.

‘I’m here,’ says Corey, clearer this time, having had a few moments to get roused.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ Matt apologises.

‘Don't be. I’m glad you did. Really glad.’

Matt can picture him, sitting up in his king bed with the black linen on, grinning that foolish grin of his, and he believes him. ‘It’s good to hear your voice too.’

‘Good. A guy could get to wondering, when you run out on him and don’t return his calls.’ He says it lightly, but Matt could wish he spoke sharper so he didn’t feel so damned guilty about his behaviour. 

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain what happened.’ He wants to say, ‘I wish you were here,’ but given the reasons Corey’s not here, it’s probably best left unsaid. ‘I think there’s something wrong with me. And I freaked out.’

‘Remember how I need you to tell me this stuff?’ Corey replies.

‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you anymore. You wanted a break from me,’ Matt protests.

‘That’s fair,’ concedes Corey.

Matt sighs. ‘No, it isn’t. Well, maybe a bit. But I should have said something before I left, so you weren’t left wondering if it was something you’d done. And we should have talked. About us. Whether… what happened…’ he swallows hard, ‘changes anything.’

‘Mm,’ Corey agrees. There’s a long pause, filled by the hum of the ceiling fan. Matt scratches an itch, just below his knee. ‘But you said you think there’s something wrong with you. And now you’ve got me worried.’

‘Uh,’ Matt opens his mouth, but there’s a torrent of words whirling through him and he can’t discern which ones are important, which are true, which he wants to say and which ones Corey wants to hear. So he ends up repeating the same monosyllabic non-word.

‘Are you ok? Like, what do you mean, _wrong_? Don't tell me your back's shot again too.’

Matt can’t say it. The words he’d planned to use, in the elevator, they’re too exposing. Too damning.

‘You’re never here when I need you,’ is all that comes out. It’s not what he meant to say, but it’s the truth. Not for the first time in this messy relationship, Matt holds back the sting of tears.

‘I know,’ Corey says, acid in his tone. ‘I’m a fucking fuckup and you’re better off without me.’

‘That’s not what I think. That’s what _you_ think.’

But Corey has more to say. ‘I watched the game tonight. I see the way you are. You’re so fucking nice to everybody. There’s so much goodness in you. You deserve to be with someone who’s good. Like you.’

‘But that’s just it. I’m not good. Tonight I…’ he drifts off.

‘It’s ok Matty. I’m listening.’

‘Jimmy hit on me. And I shoved him against a wall.’

This news seems to switch Corey’s gears completely, into barely controllable chortles. Matt can make out the words, ‘Oh my God, Matty!’ somewhere between spasms of laughter. ‘That’s brilliant, that’s fucking brilliant! Half because I can’t even imagine you doing it.’

After a certain point, Matt grows sick of the bemused laughter and interrupts. ‘See, you think I’m so virtuous, but I’m not. Virtuous people don’t go waving their fists around at everyone. And the disturbing thing is, I enjoyed it, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’

‘See, now I’m jealous. God, I’d love you to shove me against a wall. Or just take a belt to my arse.’ Corey’s voice is low and seductive, and the images explode in Matt’s head, leaving his mouth dry and his dick interested.

‘Stop!’ he breathes, hoarse.

‘Ok. I heard you,’ says Corey, placating and quiet. Once more, Matt feels all the miles between them. 

He pauses before speaking again. ‘Don’t you ever think that it’s wrong?’

‘That’s half the appeal!’ Corey says, and g. d. it, he’s speaking some truth.

There’s a vice-like tightening in his chest, and an accompanying alertness, an acceleration of his pulse. He can relate to what Corey is saying, but he’s not ready to hear it, so falls silent, awkward, stumped.

‘I’ve thought about it. Like, it doesn’t consume my every waking moment or anything. You know, just when it comes up. But Matty,’ he says, at last sensing the gravity of this for him, ‘I always come back to this: if the pain is something I want, how can it be wrong?’

There’s the little seed Matt’s been looking for, the evidence of his own moral failings. ‘So you have wondered if it’s wrong.’

‘Yeah, but I’m pretty comfortable where I’ve ended up with it. It isn’t wrong, Matt.’

‘That’s easy for you to say though. I mean, you asked _me_ to hurt _you_. It’s my end of it that’s … wronger.’

‘I’m only asking. I don’t want you to ever feel you have to do something that doesn’t feel right for you.’

Matt is surprised that he isn’t reassured by this. ‘That’s just it though. I do want to. And I don’t know what that says about me.’

‘It says you’re my kind of guy,’ Corey tells him, tone fond, familiar and flirtatious. It’s such a turn on for Matt, not least because of the combination of slight embarrassment and deep purr with which it is delivered.

‘Surely it’s abuse though, to hurt you? And doesn’t the sexual gratification make it even more sinful?’ Matt really wants to move beyond these questions, because, God, if he could do without guilt to Corey what he fantasised tonight… But they always weigh in like anchors keeping him docked in the same bay. What he’d give to pull up and sail somewhere simple.

‘I don’t know how to answer that Matt. I know I’m at peace with it, but you have to find your own answers. You can only reconcile this for yourself. If you can. I’m here, either way.’

‘We’re on a break, apparently.’ Matt reminds him. And so here he is, back at square one.

‘Matt,’ Corey begins. ‘Do you remember when you thought being gay was a sin?’

‘That’s different,’ he flips the words out fast like an acrobat turning a somersault.

‘Is it?’ asks Corey, and the question is smooth and quick as the slice of a guillotine. The words linger in Matt’s mind long after the two of them hang up, sheets of cut paper floating to the floor, a soft undoing inside him in the mess of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two birthdays and a whole lotta fluff, December 13-14 2016. Coincides with the Northern Knights v Otago Volts Supersmash game in Dunedin on December 14th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appropriate for teen audiences.

Corey James Anderson had debated with himself.

See, it feels wrong to not be marking dual birthdays with his long-time boyfriend, Matt Henry. And yet, there’s still this business of the break. It’s not that Corey wants to be having a break from Matt, not anymore, at any rate. His initial fury with him for blabbing to Jimmy about his problems has had plenty of time to settle and now he feels as calm as the morning after a snowstorm. He’s forgiven Matt the indiscretion, has even come to a certain appreciation of his stand-down from the Black Caps that was the result of Matt’s disclosure. 

He can think of nothing more appealing at this moment – his twenty-sixth year on planet earth – than to be celebrating with the man he fiercely, desperately, adores, hopes to marry one day. Instead, he’s roaming through grass and broom, alongside a slow flowing stream on the outskirts of Dunedin, with Dean, Dev, BJ and Jono. The Northern Knights have an away game scheduled tomorrow for New Zealand’s T20 tournament, the Super Smash. Training’s done for the day, so they’re out exploring.

He’d considered making a flying visit home to Christchurch en route to Dunedin a couple of days back, to touch base with the fam and instigate a pre-birthday birthday with his ever-patient, long-suffering boyfriend. But ultimately, and with reluctance, he decided against it. Because he’s found that, even if his heart is ready to be with Matt again, he still has a ways to go psychologically. The time he’s had to just focus on sorting his shit out, alongside provincial cricket commitments that are exponentially less stressful than Black Cap duties, has been a godsend, and he doesn’t want to jump back into their relationship prematurely, before he’s truly ready. In fact, he counts his decision not to go home as progress. His therapist calls it a ‘movement out of script’: for once, he’s not acting on impulse. 

Maybe this whole telling-a-stranger-your-problems gig isn’t so bad. In the overly-homely little room, he is less encumbered by the weight of other people’s expectations, so he has a whole hour with which to look at his own expectations of himself. See them as though they are separate from him. He supposes that distance is crucial to the process of thinking objectively about what he is and isn’t capable of, and of learning to be a little more self-forgiving. Yeah, so okay, he is a bit injury prone, and it sucks, but maybe the answer to that is to know and work within his physical limits a bit better. A longer rehabbing curve, and a bit more time building up the bowling loads, the emphasis on being a batting all-rounder more than master-of-all-trades.

He’s not yet sure what all this might spell for his career as an international test cricketer, but he’s working at accepting his body and that means accepting what comes as a result of his physical restrictions. It also means appreciating what he _can_ do. 

One of the things he is beginning to understand is that his moods aren’t random: they’re intimately entwined with his sense of physical capability. The lowest periods of his life have been times when he has struggled with injury. But if he can learn to live with his body, instead of fighting it, then things won’t get so damned dark in the first place. But that’s only half the story. His therapist is sure that if he can figure out how to live with the abyss inside him, not just tolerate it, but accept it, then it will reinforce self-acceptance in other areas of his life too – like his body, for example.

For the first time, it strikes him as odd that he has never felt any sense of shame about his sexuality. Considering his capacity for self-judgement, you would think, right? But no. He’s glad that there’s one area of his life, at least, in which he lets himself be happy and fulfilled. He wonders if there’s some kind of alchemy that can transmute his tense relationship with his physical abilities into something more like that. 

And then there’s Matty. Corey’s never been more painfully aware of how difficult it must be to live with sexual shame – looking inside himself has, paradoxically, deepened his understanding of his partner. There’ve been times he could have been more patient, and a little less self-involved.

Come to think of it, that could sum up their entire relationship.

He’s trying not to let this realisation turn into another excuse to hate on himself. 

That’s what he’s always done. But he wants very badly to do things differently.

*

In the evening, the birthday celebration with the team consists of a humble dinner and a cake with sparkler candles and an obligatory, tuneless rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. It’s at a restaurant rather pretentiously named Plato. They keep it civilised, with the game in mind tomorrow. Back at the hotel, the night isn’t over. The other Knights all retire at sensible hours, but Corey has a tradition to observe. Plucking softly at his guitar helps him stay awake and keeps the tips of his fingers calloused. He offers himself some Beatles tributes, a bit of Cat Power, a bit of Mountain Goats, and eventually 11.30pm sidles up alongside him. He sets the axe aside and powers up his laptop.

Mattyhenaz is already logged in. On his bed, Corey crosses his legs beneath him, scratches his beard, and waits for the dorky little Skype ringtone to sound out a few times before he accepts. 

There’s Matty, huge sun of a smile beaming out and somehow filling the entire room with effervescence. The Matty magic. ‘Happy birthday!’

‘Aw, thanks babe. How do you get to look that fresh and enthusiastic at this time of night?’

Matt shrugs. ‘Guess it’s just the glow of youth. Speaking of, er, how does it feel to be in your late twenties?’

Corey guffaws. ‘Oh you’re gonna come for me, huh? Shall we take this outside?’

‘Outside? Of what? Your clothes?’ Matt draws in a breath, pauses, like he’s mulling over the possibility. ‘Yeah, I dunno. What if I get lost in the great chasms of your old-man wrinkles?’

‘That’s a bit rich coming from you. The street maps on the corners of your eyes could make GPS obsolete.’

Matt arches an eyebrow and just like that, his adorable smile lines are smoothed away. ‘Seriously, though, you don’t look a day over twenty-six.’

‘I AM twenty-six.’

‘Old man,’ he chuckles.

‘See, in my day, we were taught to respect our elders.’

‘Yeah, I get that. Only, I’ve been wondering, what with all your advantages of life experience, where did all the wisdom go?’

‘You really wanna know?’ asks Corey, rhetorically. ‘Down the toilet. From the first moment you looked at me, then looked away and blushed.’

‘I do NOT blush,’ Matt protests, blushing. Then he ventures an observation. ‘You seem… relaxed. It looks good on you.’

‘Relaxed. Yeah. I’m that.’ That’s exactly how it’s been, a kind of calm that has glided in, as if from the ocean and showered down upon him. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way that he’d clean forgotten the word for it. Playing provincial cricket, he’s _himself_ again, not Corey Anderson, The Youngest New Zealander To Play Cricket Professionally, or The Man Who Broke Shahid Afridi’s Record And Then Fizzled Out In A Puff of Mediocrity. ‘You’re looking pretty damn fine yourself.’

‘Naw.’ A brown and black tabby cat edges, head first, onto the laptop screen, and proceeds to climb into Matt’s lap, where he curls up into a strategically cute approximation of repose. Matty scratches beneath his chin, and the cat chirrups his appreciation, nudges the affectionate hand with his snout, before settling down to rest again.

‘Oh, hey Catastrophe,’ Corey greets the furry little guy. For all his friendliness, Catastrophe opens shiny green eyes, blinks once, then nuzzles into his own paws, uninterested. ‘Rude.’

‘So tell me. How does Corey Anderson come to be relaxed?’ Matt is studying him as he idly strokes Catastrophe. He’s made grainy by the artificial light, filtered through the webcam.

‘Well it turns out that talking about your problems can be kind of helpful.’

Matt snorts. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s not just that though. I mean, sure, I’m working some stuff out, but, to be honest, this time away from the Black Caps is a relief. I just – the pressure.’ And as he says this out loud, he finally understands the full extent to which it’s been doing his head in. Year after year – playing, training, travelling, succeeding, failing, getting hurt, rehabbing, the gym, weighing in, watching what he eats, mugging for the fans and the cameras, and talking about cricket to journalists at a level of emotional remove, as though the game isn’t his whole life. 

His therapist has pointed out to him many a time his reluctance to speak for himself, to say ‘I’. His initial reaction was, ‘Doesn’t everybody talk this way?’ They all do it, all the guys. He supposes it’s a way of putting distance between themselves and the public. Or maybe it’s just as much about putting space between themselves and themselves so that this constant web of pressure and expectation, of being public property, they can pretend it’s happening to someone else. It’s easier to handle if they’re not the ones living it. 

‘Yeah, I get it.’ Matt agrees. ‘More than ever since Chappell-Hadlee. I mean, India was punishing, but it was manageable as long as I felt like I held my own. But Australia was brutal. I’ve never been so glad to be home.’

‘It’s like that sometimes, Matty. And there are other times when it all goes according to plan.’ Corey doesn’t love that he sounds like a mansplainer. They both play the same game, they both know its ebbs and flows. 

‘Yeah, I guess,’ he says. ‘I just didn’t realise how mean people can get on social media, or in the papers.’

Of course Matty didn’t realise. He thinks everyone’s as kind-hearted as he is.

‘Reckon I’ll be okay though. I don’t take things to heart the way you do. Stuff tends to bounce off me a lot quicker.’

‘Oh, it bounces off all of you?’ Corey says, grinning. ‘I thought that was just the bubble of your butt.’

‘There you go. Rabbiting on about my fat arse again,’ Matt rolls eyes.

‘I wouldn’t have said “fat”. I’d have said generous.’

‘Come over here and say that,’ Matt’s eyes are bright, daring, flirty.

‘God, I’d love to,’ Corey sighs. The clock on his laptop ticks over another minute: it’s midnight now. ‘Happy birthday, Matty.’

‘Happy birthday, Corey. I really miss you, you know that?’

He nods, a little sadly. ‘Listen. I think I might be out of the woods soon. I mean, I don’t want to promise anything, in case I’m being premature, but I feel like I’m making progress. And I want to be with you again. Not yet. But soon. You know, if you’ll have me.’

‘Of course I’ll have you. You’re my home.’

It’s frustrating, being able to see someone, hear them, interact with them, as though they’re right in front of you – but not be able to hold them.

‘You’re my home too, Matty.’

‘I best call it a night. Training tomorrow. Good luck for the game.’

Corey touches his fingers to his lips, and then to the pinprick of green webcam light. Matt acts in kind, and gets a vocal whine from Catastrophe, disturbed by the movement. 

And then he’s gone.

*

A restful night before a game, it’s pretty much the holy grail, a solid eight hours of sleep, and it’s a welcome novelty. Corey counts his blessings for every ounce of replenishment that it’s giving to his body, his back, his spirit. 

Right on cue, the first thing he knows upon waking is a fierce hunger that leaves him feeling hollow from the pit of his stomach all the way up to his oesophagus. Hunger’s a great motivator; it always chases him out of bed. His second thought is curiosity: what does morning look like today? One thing’s for certain, the view behind the hotel room curtains is never the same for long, even if hotel rooms are hotel rooms are hotel rooms.

Today, an expanse of pale grey obscures the Dunedin sky, and below, the gun-metal of tarseal and asphalt, the slate of concrete. But it’s far from dull. He’s roomed high enough in the Southern Cross Hotel that he can see a painterly landscape lies just beyond the tiny city limits. The mouth of the harbour, a calm azure, peppered by the white of boats, the occasional windsail. The blue looks drinkable, and it’s shrouded on both sides by lush hills, some rolling, others jutting. On harbour side, a forested rise dwarfs the stadium. On the opposite side, the great pure-green length of peninsula showcases the upper-middle class homes of Waverley and Vauxhall that peter out into scenic countryside, lookouts and monuments. 

In a little while, he’s sitting down to breakfast with the other unwashed dregs of international cricket, in a cafe in some side street near the exchange, newly hipster-fied. It looks as though the entire block, formerly abandoned warehouses and unleased offices, has been glammed up for hospitality. The waitress giggles as she takes their orders. It’s a working breakfast, with their captain Dean Brownlie among them, and hot topics include reiteration of team strategy, how they’ll play the green wicket with what looked yesterday like a slow outfield, and what they learned about the Volts from scouting.

Buzzzz. Corey’s just had his first tantalising taste of coffee for the day when his phone springs to life in his pocket. On any other day, he would not allow anything to get between him and the sacred bean, but today is Matty’s birthday. Sure enough, that’s the five-lettered name across his display, and if he could hazard a guess, Corey would say he’s had a visit from the courier. Corey excuses himself and takes the phone call outside, coffee in hand. He’s a little bit looking forward to this, to finding out precisely how well the gift hit the mark. 

‘Morning, birthday boy.’

‘Yes, hello. Is this the manager of Corey Holly and the Crickets?’

Yep, nailed it. 

‘This is he. I trust you’re enjoying your personalised, limited edition EP?’ He knows the answer to this already – he can hear his very own cover of Holly’s _Not Fade Away_ faintly playing on the other end. Just a little something that Corey recorded on his laptop back in the Mount. He’s had some time on his hands lately.

There’s a longish pause before Matt responds, until Corey is given to understand that the extraneous sound coming down the line isn’t white noise but Matt laugh-wheezing away. ‘I just called to let you know that it’s the naffest thing you’ve ever done, and I’d like to book a live, intimate performance.’

‘That can be arranged, I’m sure. Just let me consult with my client.’ He holds the phone at arm’s length from his face, coughs, and dialogues with himself. ‘Hey Corey! / Yeah? / Someone wants to book a gig! / Yeah? Put me on.’ He returns the phone to his ear. ‘Sure, I’ll do it. Name your time and venue.’

‘Oh Lord,’ Matt drawls. ‘You are such a dork. I especially enjoyed the album cover. Cuddling your acoustic and wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. Inspired, babe. And what is this?’

He’s referring to the second song, which has just struck up.

‘This? It’s _We All Love Peanut Butter_ by the One Way Streets. I figured you had something in common with them.’

‘You’re killing me. I’m actually dead.’

‘Oh yeah? Who’s this on the line then?’

‘I don’t know anymore. I close my eyes and all I see is cornfields, corndogs and corn syrup.’

‘Maybe I should have titled this little project _Corny Corey and the Corndogs_.’

‘Fitting. Well. I’m not going to be listening to this at every opportunity. And I’m definitely not going to randomly break into fits of laughter as I go about the business of my life. Just so you know.’

‘Oh good. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

‘Shit no. Picture that. I’m at the crease tomorrow facing the Firebirds. We’re chasing a massive score, 7 down in the 15th over. The fate of the game’s in my sloggy old hands. And here comes big Jeets, and all I can think of is you crooning George Michael, singing about how you’d like to touch my body cos not everybody has a body like me. Aaaaaaand it’s starting to get mighty uncomfortable in my box. The pitch is turning something wicked, and I’m not even thinking about where my stumps are, let alone the ball. I swing, I miss by a mile, and clunk, he hits my off-stump and the bails fly. And it’s all down to Corey Fucking Anderson’s birthday CD.’

‘God, I hope I get to bowl to you this summer,’ Corey says, leaning against the café front, leg bent at the knee and foot on the wall. ‘I’ll sledge you with the peanut butter song and we’ll see who wins that contest. Too easy.’

‘You shit. How am I ever going to get revenge?’

‘You’re asking me? When you know I’ll suggest leather belts and riding crops?’

‘Uhh, fuck. Thanks. There’s another mental image to distract me when I should be concentrating on winning cricket games.’

‘My work here is done.’ And Corey knocks back the last mouthful of coffee. He turns, and spies the waitress through the glass. She has arms loaded up with plates, and is depositing them around the table. ‘Listen Matty, I’ve gotta go. Breakfast and team talks. I hope you have a very focused and serious birthday.’

Matt laughs. ‘Thanks Corey. You’ve outdone yourself this year. Can’t wait to watch your game on Sky tonight. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but go the Knights. Now I’m going to get run out of the South Island by angry farmers with pitchforks.’

‘Probably, but you can always find sanctuary up in the Mount. They love Cantabrians up there, or so I’ve been lead to believe. And you can have more live, intimate performances by Corey Holly and the Crickets up there than you could ever want or need. Chat later, k?’

*

As the universe has it, homeground advantage wins the day, and the Knights lose by a handful of runs. Late afternoon rain spells an over reduction, and it’s a close game, a fierce competition, made all the more fierce by Jimmy’s unsolicited comments during the team handshakes. 

He leans in close, his forehead glistening with sweat, eyes gleaming with malice, and weakly clasps Corey’s hand. ‘Thirty runs. You’ll never make it back to the Black Caps on that contribution. Matt will be lonely. Are you sure you should be leaving your man unmarked?’

Corey just laughs, and returns the handshake a touch too firmly. Success today would have been a fine revenge indeed, but it’s not like he or anyone else choked. Mostly, he’s chuckling over the Matty comment, a rusty barb that fails to get under his skin. For once, he’s (mostly) on top of his insecurities, and trusts Matt implicitly. 

Maybe the best revenge is to let Jimmy stew in his own hatred. That much hatred is bound to cook a person eventually. 

The waves of hostility emanating from the man are, he’s sure, a development of recent months. Or maybe he never noticed it before now, caught up as he was in his own emotional intensity. Surely it wasn’t a feature of their younger years, when he’d liked, admired Jimmy, envied his happy-go-lucky demeanour and inimitable wit. Corey wonders now whether that easy-going air was cultivated, if much lay masked underneath it, or if the neverending competition between cricketers jockeying for position has soured Jimmy. He shelves that thought. A man could drive himself nuts speculating on the motivations of other people. He has enough of a task ahead of him in understanding all of his own inner workings.

There’s a text from Matty waiting for him, when at last he and his phone are reunited, back in the pavilion. 

_Well, look at you all pretty in pink. Love your work Corey._

Matty-cheer is the best kind of balm against the ache of losing a match. Thick fingers at the ready, he drums alphabet riffs into the keypad. 

_Hey there birthday boy. How’re you weathering your ascent to the quarter-ton club?_

A few laughter-emojis fire back quickly, and then an accompanying message:

 _Nothing like remembering your album cover during team talks to keep me young and stupid. You and that blasted bow-tie, Corey Fucking Anderson._ This comes with the nerdy-looking glasses emoji.

Corey lets out a long breath, heavy with the want of actually being there under Matty’s rays of sunshine, and feeling the warmth of his fresh giggles. And there it is, a pang of regret that he didn’t cave to instinct and take a detour to Christchurch a couple of days ago. This relationship break, God knows he needed it, but if only he’d been well-adjusted not to have needed it in the first instance.

He stumbles forward, braces himself against his cubbyhole, and turns to get a look at which of his team-mates is horsing around. It’s BJ.

‘Cheer up mate. There’s a whole competition ahead of us. Plenty of time to wreak our revenge.’

‘What? Oh yeah. Cricket. That old thing.’ And already, Corey’s attention is back on his phone. He hears BJ say something about blasphemy, and nods, ‘Uh-huh,’ as he types, not knowing or caring what he’s agreeing with. 

_I miss your laugh, Matty. Can’t help wondering when we’ll see each other again. There’s so much I need to say to you._

Within moments, there’s a reply. _Me too. I want my best friend back. That’s all I really want for my birthday._

Am I ready? Corey wonders. Am I worthy? I might be. I could be.

Then he ventures to dare himself.

I’m going to be.

*

At the hotel bar, the Knights order beers and enact a post-mortem of the game. Momentarily, Corey needs to step away, and seeks out the men’s room with the aim of relieving himself. Inside, he double-takes, seeing Jimmy Neesham next to him at the urinal. Corey plays it cool, even with wondering what the guy is doing here, having no reason to be in the very hotel where the Knights are staying, given that he lives in Dunedin and should surely be somewhere else toasting the Volts' victory. So Corey says nothing, just gives a nod of acknowledgement – it’s just him, his dick, and yellow liquid trickling into the porcelain.

Only it’s not. Corey looks around, trying to establish the source of the sound of water splashing on leather. He finds it – there’s a stream of gold, hitting his shoes. Holy shit. Jimmy is pissing on his shoes. He’s actually pissing on his shoes, the fucking psycho. 

Corey cuts his own stream and steps out of the way, coaxing his face to be smooth so he can look Neesham dead in the eye. Don’t let him see you react, even though you’ve got wizz-splash on the ankles of your jeans and all over your shoes and you’re fit to smash this feral fuck in the face.

‘You’re the only one competing in this pissing contest, James,’ Corey tells him. ‘It’s pathetic.’

‘Only for you. I’m not the one that got pissed on.’ Does this guy ever not look self-satisfied?

‘Yeah, but the difference between us is that I can clean my shoes. There’s nothing you can do about your personality.’ Corey walks away, toward the door leading back into the bar. ‘By the way,’ he adds, hand on the varnished wood. ‘I hope your aim improves before Bangladesh arrives.’

The door swings shut behind him, and he cracks a smile. 

He’s a little bit proud. He just out-sassed Jimmy Neesham.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Corey meet again in the T20 series against Bangladesh, early in January 2017. Technically, their relationship is still on hold. I'll say it once more, for emphasis: technically. Matt grapples with his relationship with his parents. And his relationship with sadomasochism. The latter, in a rather hands on capacity. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are welcome and encouraged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive, heartfelt thanks are due OutfieldOutlaw and labonnetouche who were kind enough to go through this chapter with a fine-toothed comb. I am indebted to you both for your wisdom and kindness.

‘Long black please.’

Matt wishes he were wearing two pairs of sunglasses. Or better yet, a sleep mask, and that he’d asked Kane and Mitch to simply lead him to the right terminal at Wellington airport. 

He might have overdone the whole New Years thing. He stayed up past midnight and exceeded his two-beer limit.

Wish granted: something obscures the lenses of his Adidas sunnies, and the warmth of a body behind him, of breath whispering on his neck. ‘Guess who?’

‘Um, a human sized jar of talking peanut butter?’

There’s no need to guess when it’s a voice you know as well as your own, smooth and warm as a woollen blanket.

‘I don’t even know how to respond to that,’ replies the talking jar of peanut butter, and uncovers Matt’s sunnies. Matt turns around to view the bearer of the velvety voice box, one tanned and as usual perfectly coiffed Corey Anderson, in his Black Caps travel kit. Matt’s so joyful upon seeing him that he doesn’t so much hug the man as throw himself at him.

‘Same for me,’ Corey tells the barista at the counter, over Matt’s shoulder. Then they take a table close by, to while a few moments in transit to Napier.

‘Was that supposed to surprise me? It was hardly going to be anyone else covering my eyes.’ He slips easily into the old tête-à-tête they’ve developed over the years, which largely involves Matt pretending he’s not wearing his adoration all over him, and Corey pointing out that he is. 

‘Maybe I didn’t surprise you,’ Corey shrugs, ‘But the hug I got was gushy labrador whose human has just gotten home from work.’

‘Doubt it. Real men don’t gush. At least, not on the outside.’ He says this, thick with the irony of knowing he’s one of the gushiest guys on the team. On any team. ‘Welcome back, Cozza. How does it feel to be in the squad again?’ Truth be told, he’s probably more excited about Corey’s return than Corey is.

A thick line creases Corey’s brow, beneath his prominent widow’s peak. ‘Big question. You got all day? Yeah, nah, mostly pretty fizzed,’ he replies, just a little bit too quickly, as though he has alluded to far too much and now he needs to smooth it all over by pretending everything is ok. Matt’s not buying it, and he makes a mental note to press him further – later, when they’re alone.

‘Oh, and - ’ Corey, still dashing away from the glimpse of vulnerability he’s given, reaches across the table and gives Matt’s hand a quick, surreptitious squeeze. ‘Happy New Year.’ The smile radiating from his twinkling eyes would be infectious if Matty weren’t already diseased with smitten and beaming it all back.

It’s good to see him – so, so good. At last, they can spend some time together. At last they can talk face to face.

It’s ironic really, that the game that brought them together in the first place, ensures they can’t be together for any significant period of time, then flings them together again. It’s no wonder they turn insipid in each other’s presence – their relationship is a perpetual honeymoon period, always charged, always exciting, and a hotbed of heartache. 

‘Happy New Year Cozza. And for what it’s worth, I do have all day, so I’m going to get the long answer out of you if I have to…’ Woah. He nearly said he’d tie him up and, ah, yeah, stuff. Take two. ‘If I have to keep you awake all night singing _More Than Words_ at you. You don’t want that, and I don’t want that, but I’ll do it if I have to.’ He’s babbling, trying to distract Corey from that pregnant pause a moment before. ‘I’m really glad you’re here.’

The barista calls out, ‘Two long blacks,’ and deposits a pair of takeaway cups on the counter. Matt picks up his bag and slings it over shoulder, while Corey lumbers to the counter in that way that looks as though he’s perpetually surprised by the mass of his shoulders, and grabs both their coffees, passes one to Matt. 

Matt unfolds the crinkled up boarding pass that was in his trouser pocket. ‘Gate 17. What seat you got?’

‘8D. You?’

‘5B. Damn. I hope neither of us gets stuck with Jimmy.’

‘Damn right. That guy is all piss and vinegar. Literally.’ 

Their team-mates are already at the gate, waiting to board, many a pair of sunglasses concealing tired New Years’ Day eyes, and most of them stand up when Corey arrives. It’s been a few months. 

Matt answers in kind the hand-squeeze that Corey gave him a little while ago, and then unlaces his fingers, letting go so that Corey can dish out the bear-hugs he’s known for to Kane and the others. 

*

Beside him, Sants has his eyes closed. Matt swivels his head, eyes searching back down the aisle for the man he knows to be a few rows behind. Dutchy looks up from his phone and nods his head in acknowledgement of him. Corey, to Dutchy’s right, is staring out the window.

I sure hope Corey is ready for this, Matt says, inwardly, thinking in part of their relationship, in part of international cricket.

It’s been only a couple of months or so since Corey partook of the latter. A month since Matt’s spontaneous drive to the Mount at the close of Pakistan’s tour. Corey’s back. Corey’s head. Corey’s heart. So much to worry about on that one.

He has to trust that management knows what it’s doing, bringing him back this soon. Surely they’re not being overly hasty, surely they’ve consulted with the Knights coaches and with Corey’s therapist.

At this juncture, Matt begrudgingly accepts that his nerves are his own. It’s not that he isn’t concerned for Corey. He’s that, and then some. But there’s a burning sensation whenever he thinks about what could happen between the two of them this coming week, like picking up a cup of hot tea by the mug instead of the handle and scorching your fingers. He wants, _needs_ the contact, the closeness: how right everything felt when they saw each other earlier at the airport café. Remembers how good they can be for each other at their best. He’s just not sure about the risk, the danger. After all, this break, it’s not the first time Corey has up and taken himself away from Matt, and when they reunite officially, whenever that will be, there’s gonna have to be some rebuilding of trust.

And then there’s this business of their intimacy. Of what could be – is – lurking inside Matt.

He purses his lips, and holds his hands in front of him, examining each palm. 

It’s probably best for both of them if they just focus on the task at hand: cricket.

*

‘Your father and I booked flights for Monday. We’re coming to watch you play,’ Matt’s mum says in a voice light and chirpy. ‘We haven’t been to Napier before. You’ll have to take us to breakfast at a nice place before we fly out again on Wednesday.’

‘That’s great, Mum,’ he tells her, hoping the enthusiasm he’s pushing into his words doesn’t sound as forced as it is. ‘What time will you arrive?’

‘Oh we won’t encroach. We know you’ll be busy with your training and such.’

‘Yes, but I’m asking because I want to know.’

‘Mid afternoon. Don’t worry, Matt. I know we won’t be able to see much of you, that you’ll be busy working and bonding with the other guys. We just want to show…’

She’s still speaking, but a familiar presence fills the open doorway of Matt’s hotel room with broad shoulders and spicy scent. ‘Come in,’ he mouths, and Corey obliges. He’s wearing a blue flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up strong forearms that are softened by light hairs.

‘Mum,’ Matt says, finding a gap into which to speak, ‘I have to go. I’m really glad you’re coming. We’ll talk more later, yeah?’

‘OK son. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ He ends the call, and drops his phone on the bed.

‘Ugh, that makes things awkward,’ Matt explains. ‘Mum and Dad are coming up for the game.’

Corey makes a face. ‘Oh well. It’s good that they want to support you.’

‘Lol. Support. I wish that support would extend to being civil to you and not trying to fix me up on dates with church girls.’

Corey shrugs. ‘Some people just need time. And they’ll probably need the rest of their lives. Perhaps when they’re too senile to remember how evil homosexuality is, they might be ready for the Anderson charm.’

‘Frankly, I don’t know how anyone can be impervious to the Anderson charm. It’s like hating a teddy-bear.’

‘You should introduce them to Jimmy. They can bond together while poking pins in a Care Bear.’ Corey closes the door behind him, and dives onto the bed with a growl, onto Matty, wrapping him up in his arms. 

‘Hi,’ he says, smiling at Matt. The mattress is feeble under their combined weight. 

‘Hi,’ Matt smiles back. His heart is dancing the rumba. How easy it would be to just reach up and stroke that beard. Dammit, hand, you _will_ stay in your lane. ‘Dinner go okay with Captain Kane?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Corey singsongs. ‘I felt like I was being scrutinised. And I get why. But it’s hard to get used to, from someone who used to be my flatmate. What about you? Did you manage to avoid Jimmy the whole evening?’

‘Miraculously, yes. Or at least, we sat at opposite ends of the table in the restaurant. And he didn’t follow me anywhere, I think. I hope. I should probably check the ensuite and under the bed, just to be safe. Would you mind?’

‘What, now?’ laughs Corey. 

‘Yeah! I’m serious,’ Matt says, although he’s not, really.

They let their soft chuckles fade into a quiet that’s busy with prolonged eye contact.

‘So,’ says an uncharacteristically coy Corey, wriggling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow. ‘We haven’t seen each other in a while. And uh, we’ve been on a break.’

Matt nods.

‘And we’ve been saying to each other that we need to talk face to face, like. About the relationship. So I thought I’d come see you and has anyone ever told you you have the cutest dimples?’

‘You. About a hundred times.’

‘Way to distract me with your face.’ As though his own face isn’t distracting. Matty struggles to think, faced with the heady combination of earnest blue eyes, kissable lips and a shirt that’s buttoned to haphazardly let a portion of chest show. 

Matt clears his throat. ‘I’m not sure it’s possible to get much talking done during all this eye fucking.’

‘Eye fucking sounds so sordid!’ Corey protests. ‘Besides, I wasn’t fucking you with my eyes. Not yet, at any rate. Just kissing you. Aaaand maybe undressing you just a bit.’

‘How do you undress someone just a bit?’ Matt snorts.

‘Would you like me to show you?’ Corey smirks, and Matt’s skin is a aflame with longing for his big warm hands to touch him, to remove his shirt, jeans, underwear, one item at a time.

With some effort, Matt averts his gaze, and stares down the bed, at something less arousing: his bowler feet. ‘Um, I’ve been thinking,’ he says, in his most business-like tone.

‘Right. Sorry. Talking,’ Corey snaps himself out of his own flirty spell. ‘I swear I didn’t come in here with the intention of seducing you. I just… yum. So tell me what you’ve been thinking.’

‘Well, I thought it might be a good idea if we hold off the deep and meaningfuls. Just til after Tuesday. You’ve got a lot on your plate with coming back into the side, on the back of all the therapy and rehabbing you’ve been doing this last month or so. It makes more sense for us to focus on the game first. No distractions, no complications. What do you say?’

That thinky little crease lines up Corey’s brow as he takes in Matty’s point of view. He nods once, then a second time, mouth broadening back into a smile, sincere but not wide enough to expose his teeth. ‘You’re right Matt. That’s a really good idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Actually, yes I do.’ And with that, he’s off the bed, standing up and smoothing his quiff back into place. ‘I should leave you to whatever it is you’re going to do tonight.’

‘You’re okay with that?’ Matt asks, not entirely certain Corey isn’t just trying to save face through hurt feelings.

‘Sure. Can’t argue with logic!’ He’s still grinning. It’s new to Matt, him not taking this as a rejection. ‘Tuesday’s only two days away. And I’ll be seeing you round.’ He opens the door, but pauses before exiting. ‘Oh and, er,’ he turns around to Matt, uneven front teeth revealed in full smarmery. ‘You’re sexy as hell when you’re sensible,’ and struts out as if he just singlehandedly won a World Cup final.

Overcome with frustrated longing, Matt throws himself over, face down on the bed, and casts a harsh groan into his pillow.

*

**7.49am  
** Corey  
_Mōrena. I trust you slept well and thought only of cricket._

**7.50am  
** Matt  
_Oh don’t you start with me Corey Fucking Anderson!_

**7.51am  
** Corey  
_Just an innocent good morning greeting. Perfectly platonic._

**7.52am  
** Matt  
[Eye roll emoji]

**7.52am  
** Corey  
_It’s not like I’m even in your bed. I’m safely ensconced on another floor, decidedly not waking up next to you. Decidedly not kissing your neck._

**7.53am  
** Matt  
[Thoughtful emoji]

**7.54am  
** Corey  
_So I just thought I’d ask how you slept. That’s what friends do, right?_

**7.55am  
** Matt  
_I’m getting ready to switch my phone off._

**7.56am  
** Corey  
_Slept like a baby myself. Blissful, idyllic dreams of fluffy white clouds and cows in cow corner. All cricket-related._

**7.56am  
** Matt  
_Gonna hold down that off button any second now_

**7.57am  
** Corey  
_I believe you! And when I woke up I thought of you only to wonder if you’ve been similarly myopically focused_

**7.57am  
** Matt  
[…]

**7.58am  
** Corey  
_And if you need any help disciplining your thoughts, I’m sure I could find ways to help you._

**7.58am  
** Matt  
_Oh here we go. This is where you get all Twelfth-Man-esque cliché on my ass_

**7.59am  
** Corey  
_Who on Earth is this Twelfth Man you speak of? Should I be jealous of him? I see your phone’s still switched on._

**8am  
** Matt  
_You’re shameless_

__**8am  
** Corey  
_I mean, if I’m bothering you, I can leave you alone. It’s about time I got out of bed anyway, had a shower. Lathered my naked body in hot soapy water._

__**8.01am  
** Matt  
_PFFFT_

__**8.01am  
** Corey  
_You still haven’t told me how you slept. Did you sleep ok?_

__**8.02am  
** Matt  
_I thought of you after you left my room last night. And I thought of you again when I woke up. And now I’m thinking of you again. There, are you happy?_

__**8.03am  
** Corey  
_You thought of me? How do you mean? Pleasant things I hope._

__**8.03am  
** Matt  
_You know exactly what I mean_

__**8.04am  
** Corey  
_You seem to credit me with the ability to read minds_

__**8.05am  
** Matt  
_I’m hard and I wanna get in the shower with you_

__**Corey**  
_ACCEPT DECLINE_

**ACCEPT**

* 

Dinner with Mum and Dad leaves Matt with the lingering sensation that he’s about three feet tall. Or perhaps the body double for the Matt they wish they’d had. He meets them at a bistro near the beach – always pub food with them. Lager for Dad. Chardonnay for Mum. Juice for Matt, and some lean meat and salad, a counterpoint to their burgers and fries. His father shakes his hand, Mum air-kisses each cheek, careful not to let any makeup rub off on him. A waitress in black bearing the pub logo, and a line of 5 o’clock swillers still at the bar, served by a pot-bellied man, thin hair greying, who could easily be one of them. Saloon doors and an overtone of tallow. Not the ideal smell for a hot day on the east coast. Conversation starts off predictably shallow, with the thinnest veneer of polite. His brother and his wife are well: promotion, baby on the way, house extensions and landscape gardening. Mum and Dad are looking forward to becoming grandparents. When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down? 

‘You mean a nice girl who’s okay with the fact that I’m never home and have no romantic interest in her?’ he jokes, and it’s a well-rehearsed one. They’ve had almost identical conversations more times than he can count. ‘Good to know you always have my happiness at heart.’ 

His father grunts and his mother buries her nose in the chardonnay. 

Matt makes stiff slices of his lamb. 

They ask him how the tour is going. It’s the only genuine interest they show in him. He tells them what they want to hear. 

After that, conversation dries up. Or at least, they have little to ask him, but apparently more to say about the ins and outs of his brother’s life and household. She’s due for another ultrasound. Matt listens dutifully. 

He can’t be entirely sure that, once upon a time, he wasn’t the absent participant in dinners between Mum, Dad and his brother – at least, until he stopped going to their church and told them he dated men. A fact that they still, five years on, wilfully ignore. 

When it suits them. 

During dessert, his mother bestows approbation that Matt refrained from inviting his friend tonight. Just a puddle remains in the bottom of her wine glass. 

At this point, Matt resolves to change things up. He doesn’t ignore the question and he doesn’t stare at his fingers to make sure he’s still visible. 

‘Which one of my friends, Mum? I have a lot of them. Did you know there’s a dungeon underneath the Hagley Oval pavilion? My friends and I use it to unwind after games. You wouldn’t believe the ways a cricket bat and a Kookaburra ball can be repurposed.’ 

Dad puts a hand on Mum’s shoulder. His says, ‘I think we go to the bar to pay, don’t we dear?’ through tight lips. Mum looks as though she’s been drinking raw lemon juice instead of fermented grapes. 

‘Let me,’ Matt says gruffly. ‘That is, if my pink dollars aren’t too wicked for you.’ 

Goodbye turns out to be the most awkward part of the evening, and a new kind of awkward for Matt. He’s survived without needing to touch his face to make sure he still exists, but then, it’s white hot and he has no ashes with which to smother his embers. 

He’d give exactly nothing to be a fly on the wall of their conversation in the cab.

Corey’s question pops back into his head, like a pimple rearing a white head. _Do you remember when you thought your sexuality was sinful?_

Did I ever really stop thinking that, he wonders. 

* 

Wicket celebrations are usually a blur of bodies, bumpats, and perspiration, an adrenalized haze, but when Matty takes Imrul Keyes’ wicket in the second over, one thing stands out: Corey is there first. Corey’s there first, face shining and bright like he took the wicket himself. He helps himself to a hug and Matt helps himself to the happy combination of the scent he wears and fresh sweat emanating from him. 

Despite the win, neither he nor Corey played a match to write home about, so it comes as no great surprise when Hess draws him aside in the dressing room to let him know that he is needed in Wellington, with Canterbury, at the Super Smash preliminary final. The short and long of it is that Trent is returning to the fold and so his services are no longer required for the remaining T20s against Bangladesh. The next twenty-four hours compress out ahead of Matt like time lapse photography. It’s not like he was under any illusions about his role as the fall-back guy, but he’d assumed he’d have longer with Corey, that they would have adequate time to talk in person. Now, in less than one spin of the Earth on it’s axis… 

Evidently, someone saw his heart hit the floor and he leaves Kane and Mitch to the buffet cart. ‘Not like you to look indifferent to a pile of ribs on your plate,’ Corey says. 

‘I’m that obvious,’ Matt states – not a question because he knows full well the expression on his face. 

‘Only to someone who’s as much interested in you as they are in their food. So that counts out everyone but yours truly.’ He offers an inquisitive look. ‘Bad news from Hess?’ 

Matt nods. ‘Not the worst news in the world. But I’m leaving the squad tomorrow.’ 

‘Aw crap.’ Corey frowns. 

‘I know. I thought we had time.’ 

‘We still do,’ Corey reminds him. ‘We have tonight, and the morning.’ 

Matt makes a face. ‘Breakfast with the ‘rents. Ugh. I have less patience for them than ever.’ 

Corey puts on his take-charge voice. ‘OK, here’s how we’re playing this.’ He rests a hand in the small of Matt’s back and guides him over to the bench seating along the wall. They sit down together, thighs meeting, skin still warm from showering. ‘I’ll come to your room tonight, as soon as we’re back at the hotel. No point wasting any time, we have a lot to discuss. And I’ll come with you to breakfast in the morning. For moral support.’ 

A wave of warmth washes through Matt, heating him up from inside. It catches at his lips, wants to turn them into a smile, although he knows he shouldn’t. It’s just, after last night’s abortion of a dinner, he can’t wait to see the look on his parents’ faces, turning up with Corey. It’s downright unchristian of him. 

‘Would you, Corey? Jeez, thank you. That would be – not great – but less demoralising.’ 

‘It’s nothing.’ Corey sucks flavour from his fingers, then lays a big comforting hand on his shoulder. 

‘It’s never nothing, though. It’s not fair to you to have to endure the way they treat you.’ 

‘Look,’ Corey says. ‘I can’t pretend to love that they despise me, but it’s not really personal. They’d be the same toward any man you brought home. Besides, I’ll be there for _you_. What kind of boyfriend wouldn’t offer you solidarity for your family situation?’ 

Matt is reminded of a younger, huskier Corey, some years ago, full of gentle demeanour and wisdom for days. ‘Keep this up and you’ll be eligible for sainthood.’ 

Corey scrunches up one side of his face, momentarily. ‘I’ll settle for getting back in your good graces. Hold up. I’ll just go get dessert. I’m guessing you want a side of self-saucing pudding with your whipped cream?’ 

Matt wants to tell Corey exactly what he can do with his cream. 

* 

No sooner than Matt pulls Corey into his room, they are lost to a confluence of lips, the babble of the Lindis soon engulfed in the deep and dangerous currents of the Clutha. Hands trickle over skin, rivulets caressing stones and wearing them smooth. Tonight, Matt is throwing caution to the wind, his banks are bursting. He has no time for the sin narrative. He’s too full with ache for Corey’s touch and he’s about to make the most of it. He closes his eyes, savouring the flick of Corey’s tongue against his, the brush of beard on his cheek, the drift of fingers and cotton up his chest as his shirt becomes superfluous to requirements. He’s transported, swept away. 

When Corey swirls his tongue around Matt’s nipple, he’s not even sure he’s human anymore, not for the noise that comes from his throat. He pushes Corey against the wall, as much to steady himself as for the thrill he knows it will give, and hems him in with his pelvis, one hand fumbling behind them both to dim the lighting. 

‘I like you like this,’ Corey murmurs, deep and breathy. 

‘Yeah? What else do you like?’ Matt buries his mouth into Corey’s neck, wetting him with kisses that lightly graze teeth along skin. 

‘That!’ comes out like a bullet. ‘That feels really, unh,’ and with his last utterance, Corey sounds as though he’s coming up from underwater, expiring air that he’s been holding onto forever. ‘Is this really happening?’ 

‘I think so,’ Matt’s voice comes out muffled: he’s still face-deep in Corey’s neck. Heat is creeping up his neck and face. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing.’ 

‘Hey. Look at me.’ 

Matt stops hiding. Corey appears – is that blissful or peaceful? Their eyes lock, magnet to metal. Corey takes his uncomfortably hot cheeks in his hands. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ 

Words and a look that leave Matt feeling more naked than if he were alone and coming into his own hand. Comfortably bare and yet utterly at home. He’s supposed to be dishing out the rough stuff, and yet, he’s the one being looked after. Is it like this for anyone else, he wonders? 

‘Do you know how much I love you, you idiot?’ comes tumbling out of his mouth. 

The Cheshire Cat grin is back, filling up Corey’s face from ear to ear. ‘It’s nice to hear you say it.’ 

‘God, I am so turned on,’ Matt says, weakly. 

‘I believe you.’ There’s imp in his tone. ‘I’ve got some pretty solid evidence.’ 

Matt groans – so much cheese! He flings his arms around Corey’s neck. 

Corey takes another slow breath. ‘You know, if we're really going to do this, we need to have a conversation first.’ 

They untangle their bodies, and Corey takes Matt’s hand and leads him to the bed, where he perches on the edge of the mattress. Matt straddles him, and they lace their fingers together, palms pressing. 

‘Did you do any research?’ Corey asks him. 

‘Not really,’ Matt admits. ‘I watched a porno.’ 

‘Yeah? Any good?’ Corey raises his eyebrows umpteen times. 

‘I s’pose. Would’ve been better if you were in it.’ 

‘Flirt.’ 

‘I don’t really know anything. I’ve been too busy wrestling with myself about the rights and wrongs of it to look into it. Um, I’ve heard of safe words?’ 

‘Good. Then you’re not too far behind me!’ Corey smiles at him reassuringly. 

‘Have one in mind?’ 

‘I’m keen on “stop” and “no”. Simple and clear. This isn’t a rape fantasy for me, so when I tell you to stop, I mean it. All I want is a bit of pain.’ Corey explains. 

‘Phew,’ Matt breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Because I don’t think I could keep going if you said either of those words. Not even for a role play.’ 

‘I bet, Mr Wholesome Boy-Next-Door,’ Corey teases him, and lays back on the bed, pulling Matt down on top of him. Their hands are still linked and press into the beige bedding, either side of Corey’s skull. 

Matt’s blush renews itself. ‘So what did you have in mind? Cos I’m not ready for manacles and flogging. Yet.’ 

Corey closes his eyes, like he’s remembering a pleasing dream. ‘That sounds … fun. How about we start off with something light, since we’re both new to this. If you just want to slap my arse around a bit, that would be great. Really great.’ 

Breath whistles through Matt’s teeth as he sucks in air. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. Corey’s cheeks feel good in the palm of his hand, so this he’s looking forward to. ‘Anything else?’ 

‘Teeth and fingernails would be alright. But let’s keep it simple, eh.’ 

Matt nods. He rolls off of Corey, onto his side. ‘I need to tell you something.’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘I get really angry sometimes.’ 

Corey snorts. ‘Welcome to the rest of us!’ 

‘Corey, what if I lose my temper and hurt you in a way you don’t want?’ 

Corey sounds confused. ‘Why would that happen? How do you feel right now? Are you angry?’ 

‘No’ is Matt’s honest reply. 

‘Then don’t worry about it,’ he says, casual as can be. 

‘I’d hate myself if I ever touched you in anger.’ 

‘Then don’t. Just spank me with love in your heart,’ he says, wryly. 

This ridiculous sentence pulls Matt out of his solemnity, only for a moment, until the conversation gets even bigger and more pertinent than is comfortable. 

Corey rolls onto his side so that they’re face to face. Idly, one of his fingers traces along Matt’s upper arm. ‘Are you worried that this is abusive?’ 

Gulp. Matt takes a long time to answer, because in all honesty, he doesn’t know what he thinks. He’s been going back and forth on it, the last months since Corey first brought it up, with a frequency that’s dizzying. ‘Yeah. Sometimes I think that it is. Even though I know that you want it. But at the same time, I think my moral compass got all skewed. I don’t know if this makes sense, but I grew up with this really hard line between right and wrong, from my church and my parents, but they were wrong about so much. And now I have to go about this process of sorting through the stuff that was useful and the stuff that’s just noise, and that’s hard to do, because I never learned how to trust myself. I mean, I know what I want. I just don’t know how to look at it. And like, the worst thing imaginable would be if we were to do this, and it would mess us up somehow. I don’t want to damage what we have.’ 

The teasing finger becomes a whole hand, and it comes to rest, reassuringly, on the curve of Matt’s shoulder. ‘I really want to tell you to trust your heart, to do what you want to do, but,’ he admits, with a knowing smile, ‘I have a pretty major conflict of interest here. And there’s a lot I probably don’t get, because I haven’t lived your life. I just think this can’t be wrong if it’s something we both want. And it can’t be wrong if you’re not angry when we do it, if you’re not trying to hurt me. We aren’t going to do this if either of us is in a foul mood. Can’t imagine you’d want to anyway.’ 

See, this makes perfect sense to Matt. And yet, somehow, he can’t completely throw off the feeling that someone is watching him. Judging him. The best he can do is try to ignore it. He’s been here before. 

‘And you know what, Matt? Everyone gets pissed off sometimes. Actually, I’m glad you do. When you’re too nice to people who don’t deserve it, they take advantage of you.’ 

They both know, without having to say, that Corey’s talking about Jimmy. 

‘And you _should_ get pissed off about that.’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ Matt says, ‘Well from now on, it’s no more Mr Nice Guy. Meet Matt Henry, Rookie Sadist.’ Corey’s nipples are poking little circles into his t shirt, and Matt takes one of them between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes, for emphasis. 

‘Ahhhh. Pleased to make your acquaintance!’ 

‘Great.’ Matt lets him go. ‘Formalities are over. Now you need to strip.’ 

Taking his sweet time to rise from the bed, Corey stands, facing Matt and biting his bottom lip. ‘Well, look at you. Bossing me around, face as pink as Miss Piggy.’ He lifts a finger, hooks it under his shirt, and slowly drags it up his skin, over his navel, revealing the flesh underneath until he’s exposed to just beneath his nipples. 

How typical of him, thinks Matt, comfortable to be told what to do but always maintaining control of the how of it. 

‘We’ll see whose cheeks are pink by the end of the night,’ Matt retorts. 

Solid arms criss-cross and tug the shirt over his head. The garment drops to the floor. Then Corey pauses, his thumbs at his hips, looped into the waistband of his shorts. 

‘This is good,’ Matt says encouragingly. ‘Keep going.’ As if by some will of it’s own, his hand moves to the crotch of his shorts, and he strokes himself through the fabric. 

Corey pushes his shorts down past his hips, and steps out of them. He stands before Matt, thick and strong, semi pointing sideways and straining at the material of his boxer briefs. 

‘Wait,’ instructs Matt, just as Corey looks ready to make the big reveal. He crawls off the bed and sinks to his knees. The blond fuzz at Corey’s bellybutton is soft against his lips. He kisses his way toward the swollen appendage in Corey’s underwear, caresses him through the cotton, from the rear of his balls all the way up his shaft, and takes the material-covered tip into his mouth. Mouth agog and lip upturned, Corey places a hand on the back of Matt’s skull. Matt frees him from his fabric constraints – Corey’s penis bobs pleasingly. One massaging hand on Corey’s balls, he pops the head of cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. 

Corey looks a picture of peaceful pleasure with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. When Matt drags fingernails down his back, coming to the fullness of his arse, closed eyes ping open and flash like stars winking into visibility in the dusk sky. 

‘Fucking hell.’ 

Matt opens his mouth wide and takes Corey’s cock all the way in. 

‘Fucking hell, Matt! Let me suck you too.’ 

One last motion with his mouth, and Matt removes the glistening cock. He gets back on the bed, and Corey is all over him, pulling his shorts and underwear away. Then he lays down next to Matty, in reverse, crotch at Matt’s eye level. 

They join up in a Mobius strip of happiness, Corey sheathing the length of him between his pink lips, Matt moistening his fingers with spit and exploring the outer edges of Corey’s hole. He teases with one finger, then two, all the while tugging at his shaft with his other hand. He moans – Corey swallows more and more of his cock with his hot wet mouth. 

‘You feel amazing.’ 

‘Ngggggg.’ 

Matt starts to rock his pelvis. ‘Mmm, stop, baby. You’re getting me too close.’ 

Corey almost looks sad when he has to cease the deep throating. ‘Damn. I like you getting all writhey. Can I kiss you instead?’ 

‘Please do. You have a good mouth. It does nice stuff.’ 

They reposition on the bed. 

‘It’s an okay mouth, I guess,’ Corey admits, arching an eyebrow. ‘It knows some words. Some of them even have more than one syllable.’ 

‘That’s not fair!’ Matt protests. ‘You can’t expect me to be coherent when you’re blowing me like -.’ 

Catching his lips with his own, Corey prevents Matt from completing that thought. 

Kisses turn fierce, touch hungry and writhing more urgent. In time, Matt treats Corey to a thorough arse-licking, fingers probing for the sensitive place inside him that makes him shudder. 

The moment is right. He administers a firm love-tap to the side of Corey’s upturned arse, and lets his hand linger long on the same spot as Corey reacts with some pre-verbal utterance. Corey catches his hand with his, and guides it back to the roundest part of his cheek, closer to his sack and hole. 

‘There,’ he suggests. ‘And don’t splay your fingers. It’s supposed to be hotter this way, and safer.’ 

By the time Corey is ready to be fucked, Matt is so beside himself that he rips three condoms from attempting to put them on backwards. 

‘What a pro!’ 

‘I can do sex, I promise!’ Matt retorts, and they both giggle, Matt leaving a trail of kisses on the pinkish buttocks before him. 

At last, protection is dealt with, and Matt works his cock inside. 

Slap! 

‘Harder.’ 

Slap! 

‘Unhh…’ 

* 

They come together, undone by the thrill of yet another whack of palm against flesh. Matt can’t hear Corey’s cry for the force of his own. Stunned, Corey collapses, planting his face in a pillow. Matt isn’t certain, but he thinks he might be hearing a whimper emanating from somewhere in the goosedown. His heart deflates, as though punctured. ‘Are you okay, Corey?’ 

That’s definitely a whimper. 

Fuck. What have I done? Matt says, out loud, not meaning to. And this time, he can’t run away – he’s _caused_ this. And it’s his own hotel room, at any rate, so where would he go? 

Get yourself together, he admonishes himself, and slinks up the bed like a criminal, runs his fingers through the dazed man’s hair. ‘Corey?’ he inquires again, quietly. ‘I’m so sorry.’ 

He props himself up on an adjacent pillow, and helps Corey up a little, just enough so that his head can rest in Matt’s lap. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Now he’s repeating himself, unsure if Corey can even hear him. 

All he can think of to do is keep stroking the man’s hair. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good, and that it’s his fault. 

The internet. 

His phone is just in reach, on the nightstand. 

**Google** _Help I spanked my boyfriend and now he’s catatonic_

45,100 results (0.63 seconds) 

_Today I spanked my boyfriends Dad: reddit_  
~~catatonic~~

Well that wasn’t helpful. 

He tries different search terms: clicks, scrolls, clicks, scrolls. Can’t find anything relevant. 

‘Keep playing with my hair,’ purrs the mop in his lap. 

Matt holds the phone to his chest, and exhales noisily. ‘Oh thank God.’ He tucks the phone under the pillow, and gets back to patting the sasquatch. ‘Are you okay?’ 

‘Mm. Sleepy.’ Corey tilts his head up. He looks lazily content. ‘Got any water?’ 

Matt snatches the sipper bottle, next to his phone, and releases the sipper. Accepting what’s on offer, Corey takes several swallows. ‘Thanks.’ 

Matt can’t meet his eye. One glance down the length of the bed, and he can’t ignore the angry red marks on Corey’s buttcheeks. He only hit maybe a dozen times, and he was careful not to use his full strength, but this looks painful. 

‘Is it sore? Can I get you anything?’ 

‘Stings a little, but it’s fine.’ 

That’s something of a relief, but Matt’s still concerned. ‘Hold on a second.’ He gently lifts Corey’s head so that he can get out from under him, and rests him back onto the pillow. A condom hangs from Matt’s spent cock, the end of which is a sack of fluid that slaps against his thigh. He disposes of that first, and then rummages in the bathroom cabinet for the tendril of aloe vera he picked earlier today from the garden next to the swimming pool, to relieve a mozzy bite. 

‘I’m lying in my own cum!’ moans Corey. 

‘Hang on, princess,’ Matt chucks a towel over his arm on the way out of the ensuite. 

‘Here,’ he clambers next to Corey again. ‘Up,’ he directs, and Corey lifts his torso just enough for Matt to push the towel under him. ‘Now just relax. You’re going to feel a cold sensation.’ 

He squeezes the aloe between his thumb and forefinger, and gel and juice drips onto inflamed skin. 

Corey hisses. ‘Ohhhhhh that’s good.’ 

Again for the other cheek, and Matt rubs it in, light as a feather, and it’s only a matter of time before the big man is snoring. 

But not Matt. He’s too busy comparing himself to the husband who comes home with a bunch of flowers for his missus after giving her the bash. 

* 

He’s rehearsed the entire speech in his head about a hundred times by the time Corey rouses, just after eight. 

I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I should have looked into this before we did anything, should have found out what I was supposed to do so that I didn’t traumatise you. I’m no good for you. You were right to take a break from me. I’ll understand if you never want to see me again. 

‘Morning, handsome,’ says the heavy-lidded Adonis clinging to his torso. 

This is going to be painful. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ Matt tells him. 

‘You didn’t wake me,’ Corey replies. 

‘No, I mean, last night. I really hurt you.’ 

‘Duh. That was the point. And I loved every minute of it,’ Corey beams. 

‘But afterward. You sort of went into yourself. Is that supposed to happen?’ 

Corey shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I did kinda zone out for a bit, eh? But I’m alright. Trust me. It was ayyy-mayyy-zing.’ 

Matt eyes him askance. ‘Are you sure? Cos I’ve just lain awake all night trying to figure out the right way to turn in my boyfriend privileges.’ 

‘You don’t _have_ boyfriend privileges. We’re on a break.’ Corey says gravely. Then he gasps with laughter. ‘Look at your face! Oh my God, Matt. I am not serious. I am the opposite of serious. I am so far from serious I am falling off the edge of the universe.’ 

‘You fucker! Don’t do that to me!’ 

But he’s still cackling. ‘Oh Matt. We had phone sex two days ago while in the same fricking hotel and I’ve just woken up in your room after you spanked me senseless. There is no break. We _suck_ at break.’ 

Something comes out of Matt’s voicebox that sounds like a wounded animal. He wraps every limb he can muster around Corey, as fiercely as he knows how. 

Then his alarm sounds out, intrusive like a railway crossing in full uproar. 

‘Fuck. Now I have to get out of bed and pack up. And I don’t want to fucking leave!’ he whines. 

‘Don’t then. Fuck cricket. This game sucks. Lets retire and buy a cottage in Ruby Bay. We’ll grow old and grow weed and you’ll spank me and feel guilty about it and I’ll serenade you every night on the beach.’ 

‘You’re not making this any easier…’ 

‘Ha!’ Corey barks, triumphantly. He throws back the covers. ‘Let me help you.’ 

‘Great idea. We’ll pack my belongings, jump in the shower, stay in the shower, then oops we missed breakfast with my parents, oh dear, what a shame, never mind.’ 

‘C’mon Matty. It’s a beautiful day. And I know you want to be there to see the look on their faces when I ask your Dad for your hand in marriage.’ 

Matt means to laugh, but just winds up sounding like a pig with its nose in the scraps bucket. 

When they’re done kidding around, Matt has some important stuff to say. 

‘Next time we see each other though, we need to go online and read about this sadomasochism stuff. Cos I did not have a freaking clue what was happening last night, and when you went all quiet it really freaked me out. This is still kind of difficult for me, you know? Part of me still thinks it’s wrong.’ 

‘Mmm, researching S &M with you. That’d be hot,’ is all Corey says. He folds up a pair of socks and fires them into Matt’s suitcase. ‘While we’re being serious and shit, I have a favour to ask. If you’re worried about me, and need to sound off to someone who isn’t me, try Gup or Trent. Or even Tom and Toey.’ 

‘Got it. Lesson learned. I think it is fairly safe to say I will not be talking to Jimmy about personal stuff again in this or any other lifetime.’ Matt wanders into the bathroom, and turns the lever on the shower to somewhere between warm and hot, moderate pressure. Then he leans against the doorframe. ‘Come and get it!’ he calls. 

Corey scampers after him like a fur seal charging.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with Matt's parents and a stroll on the beach. Napier, 4th January 2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not BETA'd don't @ me.

More than anything else, Corey feels sorry for the Henrys.

And he knows that it’s a luxury that he can afford, a benefit of having so little to do with Matt’s family. Not just because he lives on a completely different island, up north, but also because Matt keeps the two realms of his personal life – love and family – carefully separate, for the most part. Corey knows that this is borne of necessity, although in his darker moments, he half convinces himself that Matt partitions them off because he is ashamed of him. None of Matt’s actions, of course, accord that theory any weight. In fact, if anything, he seems more embarrassed by his parents.

Breakfast - at a restaurant on Marine Parade, upstairs with a glass vista overlooking the beach – bears out the truth of this. The muscles in Matt’s neck are pulled tight, betraying a clenched jaw. Corey asks Mrs Henry, Catherine, about impending grandparenthood. She smiles thinly, replies, ‘It will be nice,’ and turns immediately back to Matt and tells him he must train harder.

‘Don’t worry,’ Corey tries to dilute her harshness, ‘The coaches don’t let any of us off lightly.’ Catherine gives him a pointed look, as though he’s eavesdropping on a private conversation. Mr Henry weighs in with unsolicited advice too: Matt doesn’t work hard enough. He doesn’t have the natural talent of a Bond or a Hadlee, so he has to put the hard yards in (Corey stifles a guffaw at this – Hadlee’s workhorse ethic is the stuff of legend, and the idea that he was New Zealand’s best bowler from talent alone is ludicrous). He should watch himself bowling, take stock of his weaknesses and work systematically to eradicate them, according to Mr Henry. Shit, if they knew their son better, they’d know that that’s all part and parcel of being a professional cricketer already.

That’s why Corey eyes them with pity. They don’t know their son, and they don’t know what they’re missing out on.

‘You should have become a builder,’ Robert Henry rambles on. ‘You were only ever going to come so far with this cricket malarkey. But it’s not a career. And heaven knows there’s a market for builders in Christchurch, what with the rebuild and all.’

‘Plus you’d look cute in overalls and a hard-hat.’ Corey can’t resist letting that out, even though he knows it’ll make Matt’s folks uncomfortable. They just go back to pretending he’s not there anyway. Well, it’s not like he said it for their benefit. He was trying to alleviate the wounded look in Matt’s eye, the way he’s shrinking into himself.

Corey recognises the huff and the pause as Matt tries to collect his thoughts and feelings and put them together in a diplomatic way. But when Matt sets his fork down on his plate, Corey is surprised by what comes out of him. 

‘Corey and I are getting married one day,’ Matt announces, his voice thick with the anger he’s obviously trying to dial back to frustration. ‘I know you don’t want to know, but I thought you should, because you’re my parents. And I want you to be there on the day that it happens, because you’re just as important to me as he is. It’s a few years off, probably, but now you know, and now you’ve got time to work out a way to accept it. And I really hope you do, because the strain and the distance, it’s not fun for any of us. Least of all you.’

‘I think I speak for us both when I say that it is not for me to accept something that offends God,’ says his mother, washing her words down with juice.

‘Offends God? That’s debatable.’ And he laughs, not bitterly, but with a relief that suggests he’s quietly setting aside a burden for a while, to let himself breathe. And in that moment, Corey understands how much guts it took for Matt to tell his parents about their engagement.

Corey Anderson couldn’t be prouder of him. 

*

‘You know, you still haven’t told me what it’s like for you, being back in the fold,’ says Matt. 

Breakfast ended as uncomfortably as it began, and now Matt and Corey are strolling back to the hotel, by way of the beach, holding their jandals in their hands and letting the warmth of the sand massage their toes and the soles of their feet.

It’s not lost on Corey, their unusual commitment to communication – picking it up and then setting it aside again as occasion dictates, as though a relationship were like a jigsaw puzzle to complete at your leisure.

But then, it’s as much down to them as it is to their divergent schedules. This time, they just chose to prioritise sexy fun times over deep and meaningfuls, for some elusive reason.

‘S’ok, I guess,’ Corey shrugs. ‘I mean, it helps that it’s this finite stretch of T20s. I get to feel it out, sort of thing. So there’s pressure, and I’m aware I’m under the microscope. But in less than a week, I go back to Northern, away from the journos and tv cameras and scrutiny. A little peace again to free my ego.’

‘You’re kinda taking it in stride. Can’t quite believe how relaxed you are.’

‘Maybe it’s cos you’re here.’ He’s not just being a flirt, he means it. Matt’s like a trip to Hanmer Springs – familiar, relaxing and hot. And beautiful – that toothy smile that pokes dimple holes in his cheeks and splashes light in his eyes. ‘Though I have my moments,’ he admits. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for this whole international cricket deal. I’m too bloody soft.’

Matt pauses to greet a passing border collie, who’s dropped a smooth fragment of driftwood at his feet.

‘I don’t believe that,’ he says.

‘You’re just saying that,’ Corey negates him. It’s not like Matt to flat-out bullshit him to protect his fragile ego, but then, he can’t possibly believe that Corey is tough enough to be a Black Cap. Recent history and all.

‘No. No, I’m not.’ Matt picks up the driftwood, and hurls it out toward the wet sand for the collie to chase. The dog’s humans wave as they go by. ‘Look, I get that it’s no walk in the park, especially for someone as sensitive as you. But you know what I think? I think that if you don’t let yourself feel that stuff, that’s when it comes to bite you in the arse. That’s when it can break you.’ 

Corey has the distinct impression that Matt is transposing a lesson that he’s learned from a different experience. Still, he’s not entirely sure he agrees. ‘There’ve definitely been times when I wonder what it’s all for, when I can’t even remember what I love about this game. But if not cricket, then what? And what if I’m already broken?’

Matt shakes his head. ‘You’re not broken. If you were walking around like you’re invincible, but that’s not you. I’m more worried about…’ He stares out toward the ocean, letting the squawk of seagulls overhead stand in for the remainder of his sentence.

But it’s too late for him to seal what he’s already opened up. Corey presses him for more. ‘What are you worried about?’

‘Nothing. Really,’ he insists. ‘Isn’t this where we head back to the street to get to the hotel?’ He points to a heavily footprinted dune, in the direction of Marine Parade.

‘Nice try,’ Corey’s not having this distraction, even though Matt is right: this is the point at which they should leave the beach. ‘What’s bothering you?’ 

It was a weird way to phrase it too – if Matt’s not concerned that Corey is losing his mind, then what on Earth is it?

‘I’m worried if we don’t get back soon, I’ll miss my flight home.’

‘Come on, Matt. You’re testing the patience of a guy who bats at number 5.’

‘OK. The truth is, I’m worried that cricket will break your body more than your spirit.’

Bowling. He means bowling, and Corey knows it. But Matt can’t take it away from him. No-one will. If he can’t be an all-rounder, then he doesn’t want to be a cricketer. That’s all there is to it. 

He’s keeping this for himself, wrapping it up tight in layers of flesh and sinew and burying it deep behind his heart where no-one can wrest it from him. 

Protect your stumps and deflect.

‘Nahhh. Only thing that I’m letting break my body is a proper spanking from you.’

Matt giggles. And blushes. Typical. 

Corey reckons he just snuck this one past the keeper. 

When the last vestiges of giggle have washed out to sea, Matt ventures a serious question.

‘So are we good? Really good, I mean?’

Each step up the dune encases their feet fully in sand – it’s dry and yielding and an effort to trudge through.

It’s smart of Matt to ask, if bothersome. Sometimes, Corey would prefer if his actions were let to speak for themselves. And he knows damn well that’s not enough. ‘I don’t know, Matt. Reckon you’re the guy who needs to answer that. I’m the one that ballsed things up. It’s up to you whether I’m forgiven.’

‘Ha! You call that an apology?’ Matt laughs again.

‘No, I don’t. I should know by now that I can trust you, but I let paranoia and jealousy get the better of me. And then I squashed the chance for us to talk things through properly. It was stupid, and hurtful, and I’m sorry.’

Matt sighs, and the look he sends Corey reminds Corey of the times his favourite bat got a crack: eyeing it up, not sure whether to truck out bat number 2 or play on with it for luck and sentimentality.

‘I don’t know what to do with you sometimes.’

Corey purses his lips. Of course, it’s not as simple as apology and move on. Keep breathing, he tells himself. This isn’t about you. Stay present and listen. God, it’s hard work. Might be easier if the sand just swallowed him whole. 

‘It wasn’t the first time you’ve done a runner on me, Corey. And you know I want to be with you, right? But I need you to trust me and stick by me, even when things are hard. Because they’ll get hard again. And when you disappear, it devastates me. God, I love you, and I want you, but I’m not over this yet. It could take me a while. I’m relieved we’re back together. But I had to come to you to make that happen. What happens if there’s a next time, and you push me away again, and I don’t have the energy to initiate a reunion?’

The other drawback to this jigsaw puzzle approach to working through their issues is that sometimes the most heartfelt and honest responses are off limits. Like now, as they come down the other side of the sand dune and back onto the main street of tiny, provincial Napier, and taking Matt in his arms and holding him is not an option. There was a time when they could have shown their affection for each other openly, in public, and not have risked the kind of exposure or recognition they face now. 

Another reason to wonder if cricket’s been worth it.

The most he can afford here and now is to touch his palm between Matt’s shoulder blades, as if they’re two mates out shooting the breeze.

In his chest, he’s aching to answer Matt in some meaningful way, but words would only come off defensive, or worse, as promises, and its long past time for verbal commitments. Matt may have told his parents about the engagement, but they both know where their future stands. Corey is on notice. If he bails on Matt again, there probably won’t be another chance to win him back.

Back at the hotel, in his boyfriend’s room, Corey can finally give Matt the hug he deserves, bodies pressed against each other from chest to navel. Matt twines his fingers around locks of Corey’s hair and kisses him long and full, forehead’s touching. Then their lips part ways and Matt trundles his luggage on out of Corey’s sight. 

Three days, three brief days they had.

Even though there’ll be someone coming by with fresh linen to make the bed, Corey can’t stand the absence of Matt that the dishevelled covers speak of, and so he makes the bed, wondering if it’s this quiet in outer space.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corey is back home in Mount Maunganui, 4th - 8th January 2017, with the Black Caps, preparing for two more T20i's against Bangladesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta'd, don't @ me. Do not read if you hate fluff.

_4th January, 2017, Mount Maunganui_

___~~Dearest Matthew~~_  
_~~Hey Matt~~_  
_Dear Matty,_

_A little while back, my therapist suggested I try keeping a diary. Didn’t think much of the idea at the time – still a bit dubious now, truth be told. Confessing thoughts and deeds in letter form, addressed to some abstract entity; well, it’s all a bit girlish if you ask me. So here I am, back in the Mount with a couple more T20i’s on the cards, and, well, I spose I’m wishing you were here, and it seems I’m going to give this whole mad diary thing a go even if it does seem idiotic. Or at least it did, until I wrote your name at the top of the page. I’ve never been much of a correspondent, and I haven’t figured out if I’ll let you see this yet. But something is telling me to write a diary addressed to you, and I know enough from painting not to argue with the muse, whichever ridiculous direction she (or more likely HE) wants me to travel in._

_Even if we just spoke on the phone half an hour ago. You probably sensed something was up, and I would lay bets on what you and my shrink and the whole world would say to me right about now. Maybe I didn’t get it right then. OK, I didn’t, but I tried. I told you what I could. Try counts for something, evidently, in some arenas, although in the arena you and I work in the only currency is succeeding, and trying without winning is what losers do. Never realised before how dangerous it is to take that sport ethos into the rest of your life. I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember. That’s prob’ly what happens when you get a taste for winning too young: it becomes the arbiter of your self worth._

_I’m going to try **trying**. Starting with all the communication stuff. There’s this thing, see, called ‘conventional wisdom’, right? And it says you don’t get better if you don’t try. And maybe on the phone I didn’t tell you everything that was going on. Yeah, I might’ve wigged out. A wee bit. Might’ve done the whole ‘gotta go’ bit, and put my head between my knees. It’s tedious. Don’t I know it. I bore ME most of all. The other thing about **trying** though, is you’ve got to keep at it, supposedly. So here I am. Trying._

_So what happened? I don’t remember how much I managed to tell you before the panic set in. I’m equally unsure if any of it made sense, so prob’ly best thing for me is to start at the beginning._

_There was a squad barbecue. At Trent’s place. Beer and meat, you know how it goes. Tim turned up, and he’s not even in the squad. Man, how many years has he been in denial about his relationship with Trent? Not that I wanna judge him. Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Someone thought it was a good idea to make use of the swimming pool. Many beers had been consumed at this point, so I have forgotten whose idea it was, just that it was widely understood to be a good idea. I watched from the deck with my beer, and eavesdropped as Dutchy, Ronchs and Munnerz argued which of their sons and daughters would be the next Suzies Bateses and Richard Hadlees._

_Mostly, I worried. Not about the impending leg-break waiting to happen care of the pool water being dragged by damp bodies onto the lawn, as adult men charged at each other flicking wet towels at other grown men’s legs. That was not the source of my worry, despite the sizeable mud puddle developing in the grass. No. I was worrying about cricket. Because apparently I won’t let myself have a day off even on my day off. I sat there, beer in hand, four days ahead of me getting blacker and bleaker. Watching an imaginary version of myself mistime a slog sweep and deliver a Kookaburra direct into The Fizz’s hands at deep mid-wicket. Out for six. 131 not out in Queenstown 2014 a distant memory. Thereafter doomed to ducks and single digits._

_At some point, I managed to stop myself venturing any further down that dead end street, but only because I was melting in the mid afternoon heat. I sought shade and cool indoors, in what appeared to be Trent’s gym. Figured some alone time might be just the thing for pulling my shit together. Nice idea, in theory. I’m there five minutes before Slinky bursts in wearing only a towel around his waist. ‘Sorry’, he says. ‘Tim stole my clothes while I was swimming’. So before I knew it, I was roped into helping Mitchell find his clothes. An effort that led me, naturally, into the kitchen. See, Matt, I know **you’ll** understand me when I say that if you’re going to hide some clothes, the kitchen is the most logical place. It has food! No-one would ever think to look in the fridge for clothes! Except me, and prob’ly you._

_And maybe I didn’t find Mitchell’s clothing in the kitchen. But you know what I did find? An entire pavlova, big enough to feed an entire cricket team. And it must have been time for dessert, too, because lo and behold, one glance at that creamy pie laden in strawberries and slices of kiwifruit, and my tummy was going off like New Year’s Eve skyrockets._

_So I sliced up that pav. I swear I was only thinking of the team. I swear it on Mum’s cheese scones. You don’t believe me? I got 15 bowls out of the cupboard. I counted each one, sure to include a bowl for Southee. I’m just that selfless kind of guy._

_Honestly, I wasn’t planning on eating that first slice myself. I was going to give it to Trent, by then lying face down in mud after a hot pursuit from Ish. Honest, I was. But Jimmy walked in and that’s when things started to go **really** pearshaped. Wrong of a freak-the-fuck-out-and-start-a-diary magnitude._

_‘Well, well, if it isn’t our chunky Corey in the kitchen foraging for treats,’ he jeered at me, looking ruddy from the sun. So much for strategic avoidance._

_‘Hi James. Didn’t realise lobsters strayed this far from the shore,’ I said._

_‘Good to see you’re putting the “round” in “all-rounder”.’ Smug git._

_‘Tell me again how much you can bench-press,’ I said. ‘Maybe you need to eat a few slices. Bulk up a bit.’_

_The fucker just snatched the bowl out of my hands and cackled at me. ‘Unlike a pav thief I know, I’ve been blessed with a perfect metabolism. So don’t be worrying about my weight, Big Cozza. Worry about your own.’ And out he struts._

_Fucking Jimmy. Like a tick, he’d managed to grab hold and burrow right under my skin and pulled it right off. There he left me, without an epidermis._

_So I just passed bowls of pav to the resident dads of the team and then made a discreet exit, while everyone else set about turning Trent’s yard into a swamp of chlorine and mud._

_Jimmy’s digs festered away inside me, stinking like dead fish. My head was pounding, and I don’t think the sun can account for all of that. Jimmy is the worst because everything he says is on target: I’m too hefty for this game, love my food too much. What I wouldn’t give for a slender frame like, well, yours. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines with back niggles so damned often._

_That’s when I saw your text. **I like to think you’re in the ocean rn** , you wrote, **bossing through the warm waves like a selkie**. _

_I’d almost forgotten the Pacific was there._

_Thank you. You brought me a few moments reprieve._

_This is it. All written down. All my limbs are still attached, I’m in one piece. Why is it so hard to say it all out loud?_

_*_

_5th January_

_Matty, I’ve no idea how you do it. It’s one of the things I admire most about you. No, not your arse – I hope you’re not offended. You have an exquisite booty – a thousand compliments to your glutes. But it’s your boundless positivity that I admire most. I’d kill for more of what you have. It doesn’t come near as easy to me. We’re on the phone, your team freshly beaten by the Firebirds and not progressing to the Supersmash final, and you’re not needed by the national team either, but you never stop being so... plucky. Onwards and upwards, that’s you. You don’t bother dwelling on the negatives. You treat every game like nothing came before it, and you play every single one like you’re grateful to be there._

_We’re day and night in this respect. I turn every game I’ve played, and all the games I’m yet to play, into yardsticks. Either I’m not living up to my potential and I never will, or, if I have a good game, it’s a fluke and the precursor to a slump. I know full well that I should be grateful for every game I get. All my injuries, all my part-seasons spent in recovery, I should feel lucky I’m still getting selected. But instead, I turn all of it into an excuse to hate my body, and punish myself with loathing. Is there hope for me, Matty?_

_Remember when I met you? Ha! Must be ten years ago now. Seems like an alternate universe. Was that really us? You in the clubroom dunnies, eyelashes webbed by tears. Me, ten feet tall and bullet-proof. You were just another bowler to bully, until I found you there in that stall. Don’t think I’d ever glimpsed the other side of winning before then. Never really thought about it – who wants to imagine losing? Who wants to develop empathy for the bugs you’re being sent to crush?_

_Something about that nest of dark waves on your head, your skinny, gangly legs, and that waver in your breaking voice, it got me all stirred up. I was curious, and in restrospect I’d wager a good helping of that curiosity was borne out of how pretty you were. Are. But coming face to face with bare fragility like that, it knotted me up inside. From the moment I began to think of myself as a **boy** , I’d been told never to show weakness. I’d certainly never seen it in my team-mates, in my coaches, in my Dad, not in any of the men I looked up to. Boys’ high schools are ruthless, cruel places for weak boys, for feminine boys, for boys who cry and pick art over rugby. I’d seen what happened to kids like that, and it gave me that same winded feeling. I’ve never understood the compulsion some have, to crush and humiliate people weaker than them. Not that I thought you were weak. Just the opposite. It’s a bold move, to cry, even in private, when it puts you outside of what everyone says it means to be a man._

_I wanted to feed you, because you looked like you’d been growing faster than you could fuel yourself. But first and foremost, I wanted to protect you. Buggered if I know what from. Me and my hero complex again. Geez, I don’t know._

_Ten years later, and it turns out I’m the one that’s needed protection, and from myself. How is this even the same life?_

_Half the time, I don’t have a clue why I play cricket anymore. I walk out onto the wicket without a compass and expect the worst to happen. When it’s like that, I resolve to play just to give the middle finger to the part of me that wants to give it all up. And when I can’t even muster up the defiant determination, I play for you. I play to be worthy of you. Because when everything seems hopeless, you’re out there with a big smile giving it your all. If I keep pretending to be more like you, maybe one day it’ll hold for good._

_When I’m feeling like the biggest loser on planet earth, you love me anyway. If that doesn’t motivate me, nothing will. So I’ll just keep faking it til I get there, Matty. Until we’re not day and night anymore, but day and day._

_*_

_6th January_

_Look at you, lying there, my billion thread count white sheet tucked around your shoulders. Your face planted to the pillow and squished up like your cheek’s glued to a rock. Your mouth is slightly open and your lips are plumped up from the squish of the pillow. You look as though you belong inside my bed. I wish you never had to leave._

_I’m not certain I belong in this bed, this house, this life. I’m an imposter, enjoying the fruits of someone else’s success. This luxury beach-side home in the Mount bought with someone else’s IPL earnings. With my single digit scores, I’m freeloading. Who’s your real boyfriend, Matt? The talented, successful one? I’d love to meet him one day. Bet you guys have the perfect relationship. Bet he never needs consoling – he’s always in form, always smug and confident, he has the spine of a 26 year old and he never gets out for four._

_I tried to play for you, Matty, and look where that got me._

_Gah, what an irritating sadsack. How the fuck do you put up with me? If I were you, I’d give me a good spanking, something to really cry about!_

_You could have knocked me over with a feather when you turned up this morning with your suitcase. Didn’t see that one coming – thought it’d be weeks before our paths crossed again. The shade of two day growth on your jaw, looking like spice and smelling like an irrepressible grin. Is it wrong, that I’m glad the Kings lost? That it means I get to have you and keep you for four whole days?_

_You made quite the entrance. I was still asleep, we’re talking 8am or something, you must’ve let yourself in with your key, and then knocked on my bedroom door. Hard to feel angry about being woken up when it’s your voice stirring me. I barely had time to say hello – I was still fumbling through the shock of waking up and you being there, when you just peeled off your layers unceremoniously and climbed in next to me. You kissed me like you love me, touched me like you were starved for me, all that skin and fur at your navel smoothing up against me._

_What a way to wake up: parting your legs, sliding my lubed-up-and-latexed cock into your slicked-up hole, tugging you and fucking you til your mouth hung open in a continuous plea. When you come, you don’t close your eyes – you look direct into mine, and I know you’re looking at me and not the charming, cocky flirt that I pass myself off as sometimes._

_It’s late – you sleep and I write, and you don’t know I’m writing to you. I shut down on you again tonight, made myself a little perspex bubble of nobody-understands-me-so-why-bother-talking, and managed to forget how happy I am that you’re here, how lucky I am to be playing for my country, and that I was on the side that WON._

_Tomorrow, I’m giving you this diary to read. If it makes up in some small way for any of the withdrawing, the not-talking, for the times I got scared and pushed you away, then it’s worth doing._

_Sunday could be my last game. For New Zealand or forever, I don’t know. I can’t see the future. If I bat, I’m going for broke._

_Fuck it. It’s my bed, my house, my life. I mightn’t feel like I deserve them sometimes, but no-one can take them away from me. And that charismatic world-class cricketer I wish I was? He’s the imposter._

_It might even be a relief to fail, and to never get picked to play for the national side again. It could be the new beginning I didn’t know I needed. You never know: in 6 months time, I could be doing a BFA at Elam._

_So long as we’re seeing each other in the weekends, I’ll have everything I want._

**7th January**

‘You’re like a different person from last night,’ Matt places his hands on the edge of the pool, and lifts himself out of the water. This means Corey gets a director’s cut of the back of him, moist from hair down full shoulders, narrow hips and the curve of bare buttock. He turns around, and sits at the edge of the pool, ranch slider behind him, and grins at Cozza, who’s making a few leisurely laps after training. ‘Has there been anything on your mind?’

‘You,’ Corey shoots back, with an eyebrow raised. The late afternoon sun is continuing it’s arc westward, gradually dropping in the sky. Corey plunges under and submarines to Matt’s corner, lets himself feel weightless for once. When Matt’s dangling feet loom in front of him, he bursts through the water’s surface and plants his feet at the bottom of the blue pool. The water is deepish, up to his armpits. He shimmies his way between Matt’s knees and rests his arms across his thighs. 

‘If I didn’t have shagger’s back, you’d be back in the drink, naked boy.’

The glance Matt returns from above is chiding. ‘Oh no. You’re not going to distract me by flirting this time, Corey Fucking Anderson.’

‘But it’s worked so well in the past!’ he protests, and punctuates that thought with a trail of kisses to the inside of Matt’s knee and up his thigh. He’s about to administer another, halfway between knee and heaven, when Matt grabs a fistful of his soggy hair and yanks it. The sharp sting to his scalp leaves Corey’s flesh tingling and his groin stirring. ‘Now you’re just flat out turning me on.’

Corey knows well the knot of Matt’s brow, like he’s caught at some uncomfortable midpoint, trying to maintain his resolve but wanting to abandon it too. Usually, Corey delights in his sexual power: his chest inflates and he goes in for the kill. But this time, a kernel of compunction holds him back. There’s something not quite right about exploiting Matt like this, about thwarting his attempts to connect, to _care_.

He’s not playing fair, and the realisation puts heat in his cheeks. He sighs, and relents. ‘Ok. I’m serious now. I was pissed with myself for, you know, my underwhelming spell with the blade. Let myself get all gruff and grunted at you like a caveman and left you to go to sleep without saying goodnight. I’m a dick.’

‘In so many ways,’ Matt says, pursing his lips. ‘You should know by now what that does to me.’

‘I do,’ Corey tells him, grave for a moment, but then his lips twitch into a half grin. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

‘Ingratiating fuck.’ Matt’s still clutching Corey’s hair, but he lets go and slides the hand along Corey’s brow and down his cheek. He takes Corey by the chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilts his head up, and leans forward, closing the gap between them with his lips. 

It’s safe to bet, Corey thinks, that I’m forgiven. An ‘mmm’ escapes his lips, and he’s about to seize control of the kiss, deepen it, when Matt pulls away suddenly. 

‘You’re lucky you’re rich and good looking,’ he says, deadpan. ‘Otherwise I’m not sure I could forgive your sourpuss routine.’

‘Sourpuss?’ Corey grumbles, and as he does so makes backwards windmills of his arms, palms open, and slices the water back toward Matt with an almighty splash. 

Matt flinches as he gets doused, and giggles, but wrests the conversation back on topic. ‘Why the good mood then?’

‘Am I not allowed to be happy my boyfriend’s here?’

‘No. I forbid it.’

‘Oh. Well fine then. If you must know, I decided to stop worrying about my spot on the team. If I get dropped, I get dropped. I may as well just play like I love the game. Which I do, when I’m not busy being at war with it.’

‘Wow,’ Matt feigns surprise. ‘And all this time, I thought you were just in it for the hot guys,’ 

‘Oh, I am. Jimmy’s a real catch,’ Corey sniggers, and Matt wheezes out one of his laughs. Mirth looks so good on him, so organic, his face a habitat of little lines and indentations. He’s built out of eyelashes, teeth and sincerity, Corey thinks, and knows that the moment has arrived.

‘I have something for you,’ he says softly, slowly, not entirely certain of himself. ‘In my room.’

Neither of them makes an innuendo out of this, which is a relief to Corey. Jokes might disperse the tension, but this sort of tension, even if it feels intimidating, he’s not afraid of it. 

Matt swings his legs out of the pool, making his knees click. As Corey hoists himself out of water, taking a good amount with him onto the pool edge, Matt retrieves a pair of towels from the sun loungers on the deck. He chucks one over, and Corey catches it. They towel themselves off and then walk side by side, wordless, into Corey’s bedroom.

There’s a small A5 sized brown notebook on a bedside table, Corey’s side. He picks it up, and turning to Matt who is standing behind him, asks, ‘Will you read this tonight? Please.’ The words almost trip over each other in the rush to get out of his mouth. He presses the notebook into Matt’s hands, and his pulse is racing and his mouth is dry, but even so, he knows Matt is strong enough to hold it.

*

After the last entry, Matt finds a palimpsest of the following, a ghost diary on a page ripped out, but its imprint is still legible on the page beneath.

_7th January_

__

_Laptop, browser open:_  
_“The Beginners Guide to Breathplay”,_  
_Behind us on the sofa._  
_You on my lap._  
_Pinning me to the pillow, by the throat._  
_You – what the fuck is this. Poetry?_  
_Don’t read this, Matt, it’s mortifying._

* 

_8th January_

__

__

_Cozza, you big dork._

_I think you might have successfully ensured T20 selection for the next year. Just a bit. Ninety four not out! I mean, it was only a matter of time before you had an amazing game and made sure no-one forgets you anyday soon._

_I know, I’m embarrassing you, but you only have yourself to blame – I’m just running with this whole communicate-via-diary/letter idea you started. Let’s just say you inspire me. Let me count the ways. Shoulders, thighs, architectural quiff, perfectly manicured beard, and that fuck-me smile._

_I’ve said before I’d pick you to bat for my life. I’m not even kidding. I mean, either you’ll save me and vanquish the enemy, or we’re going down together. Sort of romantic, isn’t it?_

_The cherry on top of your feat of athletic prowess was Jimmy’s face. He made some self-superior comments as you strode out to the pitch, deliberately loud enough so I would hear. Was trying to entice Ish into a bet on how many balls you’d face for a duck. And then you got swinging. At first he pooh-poohed your boundaries. ‘Here we go,’ he said, but he sounded rattled. ‘Big Cozza’s gonna mistime something short and get caught in the deep like the rank amateur he is.’_

_I was careful not to crack up._

_You could track his emotional journey from dismissive to panicked to distraught to crestfallen. I thought he might weep. I’m certain I saw tendrils of steam waft out of his ears. If I were a betting man I’d say the Mouth of the South is fearing for his place on the team. And good. He’s not half the batsman or bowler you are. Let alone the man._

_Good grief. You actually remember that embarrassing clubroom loo encounter back when we were teenagers. I spent several years trying to forget it. Interesting, that specifically trying to forget something makes it linger in your memory banks all the more tenaciously. It’s sat with me for so long as a reminder of all the ways I’m not manly enough. I let my emotions show too much. I’m gay. I’m a drinks boy, not good enough at my craft to knock Southee from his perch. I see why you’d say it’s brave to cry, but it still doesn’t **feel** brave. All the more humiliating, at the time, that it was you who found me in there that day. I was in awe of you. A lot more than the other St Bede’s boys were. You could attribute the fact that I still remember our first meeting to that, and to the kindness you showed me at a time when I just wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else, far away._

_That was the day I first fell in love ... with your Mum’s cheese scones._

_I just hope it’s clear to you now, after knocking that entire game out of Bangladesh’s reach today, that Corey Anderson the Golden Boy, Mr Cocky, Mr Charismatic, he’s not an imposter. He’s just as much you as the you that feels defeated and worthless. I’m in love with both sides of you. They’re not even as different as you seem to think they are. At your best and at your worst, no-one can match you for loyalty. You’ve had my back since you shared your lunch with me behind the clubroom toilets. When I was too fearful of being gay to own my feelings about you. When I was recovering from back surgery. When my parents won’t accept me. You’ve been right there, giving me the support I’m sometimes too proud to admit I need._

_That’s the true measure of your character. Not centuries. Not ducks._

_Thank you for giving me these words. It feels like you’re trying to open up to me, and that’s a big deal, Corey. I don’t take it for granted. It makes me think of, I dunno, finally taking a test wicket after dozens of dry, grueling overs running in with spirits depleting by the minute. Let’s keep doing this. Let’s keep writing to each other. What’s inside you, you probably think it’s ugly and embarrassing, but it isn’t to me. If anything, it’s the opposite – I respect and love you more deeply the better I know you. I can be a better lover and friend to you when I know what’s going on. So keep writing to me, and I’ll keep writing to you: letters, emails, fucking semaphore, whatever. I’m all for any kind of glue that can bind us while we live on different islands. I need this, and I think you need it too._

_You’re my foundations, my insulation, my shelter, my warmth. Let me be that for you too._

_Home’s not a place, it’s a person._

_Yours, forever,_

_Matt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, you made it to the end. This is the final instalment. Thank you for reading, for commenting, for betaing, for motivating me when I was struggling. I couldn't have gotten this far without your love and support.
> 
> I feel sad to wave goodbye to this ship as it sails on into the sunset, but sometimes you just know when it's time to part ways. I don't know what I'm going to do next. I had a thought I would just read other people's work for a while. Maybe explore new ships, add to the genie story. You never know, one day in the far future I might come back to these two, fill in the gaps in the story between 2014-2016, or write that sappy wedding coda I've been threatening to foist on you.


End file.
